


Come on my Strapping Buck

by Into_the_Ether



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Beatings under the Mistletoe, But he really is, Christmas Party, Christmas Smut, Established Relationship, Fawnlock?, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Fuzzy deer antlers, Idiots in Love, In essence at least, John having a thing for Sherlock in said antlers, John's precious doe bum is in trouble, M/M, Questionable betting practices, Questionable things done with quiches, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock is a Good Boyfriend, Sherlock is a terrible flirt, Sherlock is not a wallflower, Ugly Christmas Apparel Challenge, Ugly Holiday Sweaters, bottomjohn, roleplaying, toplock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-09-12 22:55:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9094420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Into_the_Ether/pseuds/Into_the_Ether
Summary: “Fine.” Tutted John, ignoring the small triumphant smirk spreading across Sherlock’s face. “You have to wear something festive though—” He muttered under his breath, looking around the surrounding area and spying a small inch of brown sticking up from an open cardboard box sitting with several other boxes on the coffee table. 
  Perfect…
In a ploy to get Sherlock to join him for Lestrade’s holiday party, John tries his luck with a pair of fuzzy antlers and the promise of a good old fashioned romp when they get home. Can he stick to the plan with the detective looking so unexpectedly stunning? And why does it seem like Sherlock has plans of his own?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I came across [Crazycatt71](http://archiveofourown.org/users/crazycatt71)'s [Ugly Christmas Apparel Challenge](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/UglyChristmasApparelChallenge) and was possessed by the spirit of Smutty Holiday Fanfiction. So here's my contribution to the challenge. 
> 
> And while I wanted to get this out _before_ Christmas, the holidays had other ideas. But, better late then never! Enjoy!!

It was a quarter till eight in the evening when John finally marched down the hall, freshly shaven and tugging warily at the cuffs of his jumper. Their stitching left much to be desired in terms of stretch, which wasn’t terribly surprising considering the sweater was in fact, made for a lady. Or at least John had assumed so when he found it hanging at a local thrift store amongst a plethora of secondhand knitware with very little organization.

Despite it now slowly cutting off of the circulation at his wrists and jamming up into his armpits whenever John raised his arms above waist level, it was completely worth it for tonight’s purposes.

As he walked into the kitchen, bathed in stark, blue-tinged light from the florescent hanging over the kitchen bench, John stopped fiddling with his cuffs and looked up to find Sherlock hunched over his microscope. Exactly where he left him an hour and a half earlier when the doctor had arrived home from surgery and popped off for a quick shower.

“Where’s your jumper?” He asked, knowing the observable answer was _not_ on Sherlock as he was still clad in a white dress shirt, its sleeves rolled up at the elbows. The jumper in question hadn’t been on the bed where he’d laid it out for Sherlock prior to heading into the bathroom and upon seeing it missing, John had genuinely ( _apparently foolishly_ ) got his hopes up.

John began to wonder if Sherlock even registered he was in the same room, let alone speaking to him, when he saw the man’s ears dart up. A sure sign his jaw was flexing which usually ( _always_ ) played a precursor to…

“I do not, nor have I ever, owned a _jumper_.” Sherlock replied dispassionately, though his eyes flared on the last word, the light cast from the oculars making them appear nearly icy in hue. “And if you’re referring to the abomination _you_ brought into this flat, I think you already know.” He continued after a beat.

Not aiming to start a row ten minutes before they _should_ be slipping into a cab and heading to Greg’s, John kept his response playful if not a little pleading. “Sherlock, the whole point of an ugly Christmas sweater party is to _wear_ an ugly Christmas sweater.” He kept the momentum going, crossing to the other side of the kitchen to where his wallet was sitting beside his mobile on the counter.

“Now could you please hurry up? We’ll probably be late as it is with the traffic.” John requested over his shoulder, pocketing his wallet and pulling the charging cord from his phone.

“ _You’ll_ be late. I’m not going.” Came a blasé reply from behind.

“Sherlock…” The doctor sighed in frustration, turning round to face him.

“When have you ever known me to willingly attend a holiday party John?” Sherlock demanded, his collected façade giving way as he finally wrenched his attention away from the microscope to shoot a piercing glare at John across the kitchen bench. It dissolved a hot second later when the detective took in what he was wearing with open horror and disgust.

John felt an odd sense of satisfaction bubble up inside him. If he could garner this sort of response from Sherlock of all people, he’d be shoe in for winning Lestrade’s contest for the ugliest piece of Christmas garb. The prize—according to the DI when he proudly told John about it upon inviting him last week—was a bottle of Rémy Martin 1738 Accord Royal cognac.

There were a handful things in this world that John Watson did not piss about with, and one of them was a quality brandy. Full stop.

The sleeves and waist of the sweater were knitted from a washed out red yarn while the chest area was darker, royal blue in color. The attempt was to depict a living room at Christmas time with a fireplace made of bright orange yarn near John’s right side, and a large tree made of green yarn by his left and spanning up his chest towards the collar. The tree itself was “decorated” with tiny multicolored pompoms at each branch end and at the center were four faceless representations of children trimming it while a fifth child held the crooked ladder they joyfully scaled.

Perhaps John’s favorite part however, was the red and white _blob_ at the base of the fireplace. Whoever crafted this fine piece of apparel had intended to depict Santa having arrived after traveling down the chimney, but with the way the figure was placed and rotated it appeared more like his lifeless body had been propped up against a wall. Presumably after delivering the pile of dreadfully textured presents located around John’s navel.

The doctor placed his hands on his hips, jutting his chest out a little in all its garish glory.

“I stand corrected…” Sherlock’s expression fell into something more refined as he straightened up on his stool. “ _That’s_ an abomination.” He gave him one last withering glower before returning to his work, carefully extracting one glass slide from the mounting clips to replace it with another.  

Sighing, John let his hands drop to his sides. He came round the table to stand by Sherlock’s side and was as anticipated, pointedly ignored.

“You’re gonna miss Anderson getting pissed and making an arse of himself hitting on his coworkers.” He tried. “Dimmock and I have twenty quid on who’s slapping him under the mistletoe this year. My money’s on Claudia, that new forensic photographer. Bit of a dark horse but I’ve seen the way Phil’s been _ogling_ her at crime scenes lately.”

“I’m surprised John…as a doctor I imagined schadenfreude was against the _creed_.” Sherlock cocked a brow, though there was a hint of amusement in his tone.

“That’s ‘ _do no harm_ ’ love,” John broke out into a grin. “Not standby while a desperate man has an emotional breakdown via eggnog and peppermint schnapps.”

Sherlock laughed softly but genuinely, turning his head to address him. His mirth iced over upon spotting the “wreath” mounted on John’s left shoulder. Not only was it misshapen like every other object on the sweater, it wasn’t even the customary green, but instead red flecked with white and adorned with more little pompoms.

“ _No. Jumpers_.”

“But that’s the theme!” John protested, making a vague gesture at his torso for emphasis. Though he knew fully well doing so wouldn’t help his defense in the slightest.  

Sherlock simply honed his glare, all the more steely under the florescent light.

“ _Fine_.” Tutted John, ignoring the small triumphant smirk spreading across Sherlock’s face. “You have to wear something festive though—” He muttered under his breath, looking around the surrounding area and spying a small inch of brown sticking up from an open cardboard box sitting with several other boxes on the coffee table.

_Perfect…_

John strode into the sitting room, plucking what turned out to be a pair of fuzzy stuffed antlers and little felt deer ears glued to a headband amongst other holiday paraphernalia that had yet to be hung or strung or placed. He bought them on a lark a few years ago, but they had remained stored away ever since, unused and nearly forgotten.

Sherlock, having returned victoriously to his research, visibly balked in his seat when the headband was slipped onto his crown. The antlers twitched as his head jerked up, regarding John with something akin to confusion and betrayal. His brow knitted, keen eyes rolling upwards like he could see the offending ornament through his fringe. 

John tongued the inside of his cheek, envisioning sleeping on Lestrade’s sofa tonight and the next few nights at that. _Bloody worth it though_ , _look at him_ …

The headband completely vanished in the Sherlock’s hair—a little untamed as the man hadn’t planned on leaving the flat that evening. It gave the illusion that the chocolate brown, velvety antlers were actually sprouting from his skull while only the very tips of the wee light brown ears popped out from his curls.

“If this is your attempt at a compromise John, I’m starting to question your grasp of the word.” Sherlock remarked sourly, but curiously enough, didn’t remove the antlers immediately.

“Come on my strapping buck. Just a couple of hours holiday hobnobbing…I’ll make it worth your wild when we get back yeah?” The doctor waggled his eyebrows, folding his arms over his chest and leaning a hip on the edge of the bench. He added a roguish smirk for good measure.

“What happened to ‘ _we don’t use sex as a barging chip_ ’?” Sherlock challenged unflappably, though John spotted the telltale splash of pink forming at the tips of his real ears.

“Gosh…must be the jumper.” John said innocently, widening his eyes and taking a quick glance down at the hideous thing gilding his torso. “I think the terrible stitching has gone to my brain. You’ll just have to keep me in check. No telling what I’ll get up to in this state.”

“Strapping _buck_ …” Sherlock murmured, seeming to mull it over. Without further word he rose from his stool, flicking off the light of the microscope near its base. That was all the indication John needed to go fetch their coats in the hall where they were slung one atop the other on the banister leading up to his old bedroom. When he returned, Sherlock had already donned his suit jacket and was fastening the front button.

“So if I’m the buck…” The detective began curiously, tugging the sleeves of his jacket in place over his cuffs before accepting his Belstaff and scarf when John offered them. “…does that make you my _doe_?”

John paused as he was slipping into his own coat, his lips pursing softly in thought. “A few cups of nog in me and I could probably agree to that.” He confessed with a boyish grin and glanced over as he did up his zip to see Sherlock smiling with equal fervor, half-hidden by his upturned collar. John watched as he reached up and gingerly pulled the antlers from his head, appearing about to toss them aside.

It was nonsensical really, downright trivial, but John couldn’t help a fleeting pang of disappointment at that. _At least he’s going with you. That’s a win in itself, isn’t it?_ The doctor reasoned.  

Which made it all the more shocking when Sherlock gave his curls a light fluff then proceeded to tuck the antlers carefully into the side pocket of his greatcoat. He caught John staring at him in quiet wonder a second later as he looped his blue silk scarf round his neck, John doing a poor job at covering by suddenly having to recheck if he had his wallet, mobile, and—

There was a soft jingling of metal on metal near his left ear and John looked up to see Sherlock standing inches away and holding his small ring of keys between two gloved fingers.

“Shall we?” Sherlock dropped the keys gently into the doctor’s palm as he raised it, the corners of his mouth lifting faintly while the rest of his expression remained unreadable.

 

~<>*<><>*<>~

 

The traffic on the ride over to the party wasn’t nearly as bad as John anticipated, their driver opting for several side roads to avoid the heaviest gridlock and dropping them off at Lestrade’s flat in Acton in record time.

John had texted Greg on the way over saying _they_ were coming but would probably be late, only to receive three texts in quick succession:

_Lestrade (8:07 PM): Sherlock’s coming? To my place? For a party?_

_Lestrade (8:07 PM): It’s a bloody Christmas miracle!_

_Lestrade (8:08 PM): Just let yourselves in when you get here mate (mind the doorjamb) and come on up!_

They did just that upon arriving, Sherlock looming behind John up the handful of brick steps to discover Greg’s “doorjamb” was actually a small scrap of wood stopping the door from completely closing. They shared a look upon seeing it, John snickering and Sherlock rolling his eyes.

John let the door slip through his fingers as they entered the drafty entryway, careful as it came to rest that the door didn’t dislodge the wood. The low hum of Christmas music—something poppy and synthesized—funneled down from a long, narrow flight of stairs that banked off to the right.

When he turned back, he noticed the grim expression Sherlock wore, still swaddled up tightly in his coat and eyeing the way up to Lestrade’s flat with trepidation.

“It’s just an hour or two.” The doctor reasoned quietly, though John highly doubted anyone could hear them from above, even without the music. “Besides, you know most of these people.” He added with a little shrug, pulling off his gloves and stuffing them in his coat pockets.

“Maybe not by name…including our host.” He mused shrewdly and managed to pull Sherlock’s attention from the stairs to regard him instead, looking completely unimpressed.

“My point is, you’re amongst colleagues. It’s a party, not an execution. We go in for a bit, have a drink or two, maybe a chat, wish them a happy Christmas, and then get the hell out of here and go home.”

Sherlock seemed to perk up at that, though he still appeared to John like a man about to head off to battle.

They were about to start up the stairs when John stopped them, pointing silently up at his own head. The detective’s brow furrowed in a flash of confusion before he lobbed a hefty sigh. Sherlock dug into his pocket and pulled out the stuffed antlers, jamming them unceremoniously onto his head. John felt a deep swoop of earnest adoration in his gut as they wobbled gently, like they had become an extension of the man and were now positively quivering with his irritation. And to John’s sudden revelation…inexplicably sexy.

While his love and attraction were definitely tinting his perception, no doubt, the fact that Sherlock was undeniably (if not a little uncommonly) handsome and could probably wear nothing but a bin liner and still look like a bloody Adonis certainly didn’t hurt.

“ _What_?” The detective snapped, the antlers jerking sharply. His gaze flicked down towards John’s lips and the doctor realized he’d been licking them over none too innocently, before shooting back up to his eyes. Whatever they were currently doing made Sherlock’s scowl mollify as he gave a husky, “Oh.”

He was pliant when John corralled him back the step or two to the wall behind them, one hand sinking into the cozy pocket between the Sherlock’s neck and his scarf, the other John wrapped around his waist. Sherlock met him half way, tipping his head downwards while John pushed up a little on his toes. Mouths coming together unhurriedly but profoundly.

There was something still strangely thrilling about this to John; sneaking in a hearty snog where they could be easily caught in the act. They were barely out of sight from the landing of the steps above and could clearly be spotted by anyone coming in through the front door.

Not that there was anything to hide really. His and Sherlock’s relationship and its nature weren’t some great secret to their friends and family—nor a good portion of the public eye of London at this point.

_God that article in the Sun awhile back. That bloke who claimed he caught us shagging in an alleyway and those clearly computer-edited photos…_

Sherlock had hung them proudly with a magnet on the fridge for two weeks.

‘ _Perhaps I’ll have them enlarged and framed…that should keep Mycroft at bay for a few months.’_ He’d wistfully suggested to John as the doctor finally took the clippings down at the behest of poor Mrs. H. Though…instead of going right in the bin, those grainy swatches of newsprint depicting Sherlock half bent over behind a skip with his trousers around his knees and John pressed up behind him from various angles may or may not have ended up tucked safely away in bottom of the lockbox that housed his service gun.

Not much of a secret at all, no. But stealing a kiss in brief moment of private with Sherlock didn’t feel like it had with previous girlfriends—him being a man aside. It felt more indulgent, headier, like he was tapping into something previously dormant. Something John had only scratched the surface of but could now sink down in and lose himself. Till the entire room, hell, the world coalesced into nothing but his lips on Sherlock’s, on the slow or needy roaming of hands, or the entwining of fingers, on their bodies pressed together or separated by a mere inch or two where John could _sense_ the space between them, conducting heat and energy like it were some palpable thing.

It was unquestionably, terribly sentimental, the stuff of sodding romance novels (and wasn’t he always panned for romanticizing?), but it made John feel a bit swoony all the same and he let himself sink a bit more into Sherlock’s winding embrace.

John let out a soft groan at the slick tip of a tongue coaxing its way in between his lips and flicking over his own. Sherlock’s gloved hand smoothed up his back to cup at the back of his neck, the leather warm and supple and sticking a little to the sweat forming on his skin.

He felt those long fingers spread as Sherlock drew his head closer, the man’s tongue delving in deeper with a throaty hum. The sound went straight down John’s core, bursting in the pit of his stomach and trickling lower—

A dull thud came from above, like something heavy enough to be heard through the ceiling was dropped, followed by the muffled sound of cheering and laughter.

John pulled back a little, resting his forehead on Sherlock’s shoulder as he pulled himself together.

“Having second thoughts are you?” The detective murmured along his ear, sounding just as winded.

“And thirds, and fourths.” John huffed with laugh, rolling his brow against the tight knit of the man’s coat and taking a moment to breathe him in. Wool, London, and the faded ( _thankfully_ ) hint of cigarette smoke. Not all the things that made up the complex amalgam of Sherlock’s scent, but crucial parts of it.

“What, and miss Anderson being publicly humiliated? You promised me a slap John; it’s the least you can do for dragging me all the way out here in that heinous pile of yarn to _socialize_.”

When John drew back to see him fully, Sherlock looked positively edible. Flushed high along his cheeks, lips pinked and a little swollen from kissing and spread in a challenging smirk, his sharp eyes a touch glassy, pupils narrowing as they retracted from the influx of light.

“I suppose I did, didn’t I?” John conceded, noticing in his peripheral that Sherlock’s antlers had gone askew during their pawing of one another. He reached up and began to readjust them, Sherlock bowing his head a tad in way of assistance.

The faux fur material was so much softer then he’d remembered it being, almost silky under his fingertips. He had an arresting curiosity as to what they would feel like against his face, or his neck, what they might feel like trailing over his chest or stomach or—

John caught himself absently rubbing the stuffed horns more than he was centering them, peering down to see Sherlock watching him intently through his lashes. When the doctor hastily let him go he stood to his full height, regarding John quietly a moment more before nodding towards the stairway.

“ _Erm_ —right yeah. Let’s uh...” John trailed off and cleared his throat, taking the lead as he mounted the steps, perhaps a little quicker than necessary.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...I had originally planned on just two chapters to this story. But as I got to writing out the party scene it just sort of grew to the point of becoming its own thing. And instead of having one massive last chapter I've decided to cut it up and add an end cap of three chapters. Granted I'm sure you guys wouldn't complain about getting _more_ story in the end. 
> 
> So on that note, enjoy!!!

 

Lestrade spotted John first as they entered, excusing himself from a conversation he was having to snake his way through the small crowd occupying his living room to come over to greet them. He received John with a handshake and a hearty slap on the arm then set his sights on Sherlock.

“Sherlock.” Greg welcomed him. “Nice rack.” He added good-humoredly, nodding towards the antlers adorning the detective’s head as he presented his hand.

“Cheers.” Sherlock replied with him a curt smile. He accepted Greg’s hand a moment or two later after John gave him a subtle nudge in the side with his elbow.  

“You know, when John told me you were coming I couldn’t believe it.” Lestrade mentioned as he offered to take their coats, shooting the doctor an eager look.

“ _Yes_. Still trying to believe it myself.” The detective replied offhandedly, nimbly loosening his scarf with one hand while he undid the buttons of his Belstaff with the other. He draped both over Greg’s arm without ceremony then muttered a thank you when he caught the expectant stare John was giving him.

“Can I get you lads anything to drink? Beer, wine? If you want eggnog I’d get it soon; Anderson’s been mainlining it since he arrived.” Greg frowned wearily and John took a look over the man’s shoulder and across the room. He spied Philip standing not a foot away from a long folding table Lestrade had set up along one wall, a stout red plastic punch bowl along with several opened bottles of wine and various appetizers spread out over it.

To John’s inward delight, the forensic pathologist was sidled up next to Claudia, eagerly chatting her up while she appeared to be only politely conversing back. He might not have been able to read people as thoroughly as Sherlock, but John knew a forced smile and a body held stiffly when he saw one.

“Nothing for me. Thank you.” Sherlock was quick to reply, hauling John from his rubbernecking.

“I’ll take a beer, thanks.” John said as he stripped off his coat and handed it over.

“Fucking hell John, did you rob your nan for that?” Lestrade winced with a bewildered laugh as his eyes roamed John’s jumper in all its confusing detail.

“Yeah, found it right next to yours.” He smirked at the cardigan Greg sported.

The entirety of the Lestrade’s sweater was knitted in a gaudy lime green and dotted here and there with delicate white snowflakes. Sitting at the bottom right, near his hip, was the giant disembodied head of a gleefully grinning elf complete with pointy hat and nose. While the garment was obviously store bought rather than handmade ( _and subsequently abandoned_ ) as John speculated his own was, Lestrade _had_ made a rather clever alteration. He’d glued a pair of large googly eyes over the elf’s, resulting in him constantly being cockeyed.

Greg spread his arms a little. “Not half bad aye?” He wiggled his hips, causing the plastic eyes to sway. John couldn’t stop a guilty laugh and Sherlock glared at them both in repugnance.

His distaste was cut short by a loud ‘ _wooooo’_ from the center of the room. Guests began flicking at drinking glasses and tapping at their bottles, directing their applause to one corner of the living room.

John patted Sherlock on the arm and steered his attention to where a small hallway sat leading to Lestrade’s bedroom and bath. There at hall’s entry hung a sprig of mistletoe and a man and woman sharing a fairly _enthusiastic_ kiss beneath it. And knowing Greg, that particular placement was fully intentional.

As the noise died down, the pair made their way back into the throng of other guests.

“Right, well, make yourselves at home and I’ll be back with that beer. Stout alright?” Greg asked.

John nodded and the DI left them standing on the outskirts of his living room.

Lestrade had done an impressive job of decorating his flat, stringing large fairy lights around the entire ceiling of the space. In what John assumed was another calculated placement, he’d strung more lights to frame his relatively new flat screen telly mounted on the wall next to the hallway. The set itself was on, displaying a yule log someone had recorded burning in their fireplace.

In the very center of the room sat a small LED lit Christmas tree, perhaps only a foot and a half in height on a wide glass coffee table. Several guests had gathered round it, taking up the available sitting space on Greg’s mismatched leather furniture.

Next to him, Sherlock had taken a sudden interest in those mingling, his posture stiff and on guard. He’d inched closer to John at some point, enough that they were brushing from shoulder to elbow.

John bumped the man’s arm softly with his own. “That means relax, you know.”

“I know what it means.” Sherlock retorted abruptly but low, leveling John with a pensive glance before he looked sharply away and back to the crowd.

Despite Sherlock’s stony vestige, John was reminded of a young boy quietly brooding on the sidelines, aching to be anywhere else but there. He’d never pegged Sherlock to be anything resembling a wallflower and he expected the only reason he could see it at all was because of how intimately John knew him by now. But there it was. Right below the surface and to John, more than a little heartbreaking.

_God how many times has he done this? Stood here by himself. Watching others interact and enjoy themselves so easily. No wonder he didn’t want to come tonight. He probably felt so out of place back then. And I’ve gone and lugged him right back into it like an idiot._

“Hey…” John turned to him, speaking low enough that Sherlock could still hear him over the droning holiday music. He reached blindly for Sherlock’s hand, finding it tightly curled at his side. As his fingers grazed clenched ones, they flinched, constricting a little more before they slowly unfurled to slot themselves in the spaces between John’s. John kept his sights firmly on Sherlock’s face, which remained placid even as his piercing gaze flicked over each person there.

“ _Hey_.” He tried again, squeezing Sherlock’s hand with a gentle firmness and sweeping his thumb over it in what John hoped was a soothing manner. He wasn’t sure if anyone had become aware of them arriving or that they were still loitering by the front door, but at the moment John couldn’t give a toss. “We don’t have to stay you know. Honest. I’ll make up something to tell Greg and we’ll go.”

That garnered a response from Sherlock and John felt a flare of relief as the detective looked down at him with a laxer gaze and the makings of a smile.

“You’re going to lose your bet.” He remarked thoughtfully.

“Eh I’ll live...” John shrugged, sliding his other hand up and under Sherlock’s arm. He pulled it closer to him in a makeshift hug before dropping a kiss on the smooth fabric of the detective’s shoulder. “There’ll be plenty of opportunities for us to make a few quid off Philip Anderson.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “ _No_ …I mean _your_ bet. It’s wrong. Claudia won’t be the one striking him tonight.”

John furrowed his brow, stealing a quick glance over to where Philip remained haunting Claudia by the drinks table, the poor woman inching away whenever Anderson hovered farther into her personal space.

“Cor, he’s practically slathering over her. A cup or two more and as soon as she makes it for the loo he’s going to pounce.” The doctor reasoned.

“While I do agree with you that he’s _disturbingly_ smitten. What you’ve failed to observe John is he’s not the only one.” Sherlock stated cryptically, evidently relishing the look of perplexity John wore by his own spreading grin. He craned his head down, soft dry lips ghosting alongside the doctor’s ear to whisper. “There…plastered to that doorframe.” Sherlock nodded to their collective right.

Turning as discretely as he could, John peered over to see a young auburn-haired woman with thick-rimmed glasses standing to one side of the open entryway into Lestrade’s modest kitchen. Well, _half-hidden_ by it was more accurate. She was clinging to the molding as Sherlock had described, her head popped out a little farther then her body. The expression on her heart-shaped face seemed troubled to John as she watched over the party’s proceedings.

“Who—Lucy?” John asked as he twisted back.

“How can you possibly know all these people’s _names_?” Sherlock glowered as if he’d deeply offended him and John in turn curbed a snort. Not looking for an actual answer, Sherlock continued with a dismissive twitch of his antlers. “Yes _Lucy_. But more importantly, the person she’s been staring at since we’ve arrived. And I’d hazard to say long before that.”

Chancing another peek, it took John a few seconds to spot Lucy’s eyes where they were partially obscured by the glare on her lenses and the shadow cast from the dense, angular swath of her fringe. Instead of shifting about, Lucy’s gaze was instead fixed on a certain point. Attempting to follow her line of sight, John was taken aback to discover it aimed at none other than—

“ _No_.” The doctor gaped a little. “It can’t be. _Anderson_?”

“Think John, you’ve seen it before. It’s unmistakable. The prolong looks, the melancholy expression, the self-distancing.”

“The time-old struggle of unrequited feelings.” Sherlock ended a little dourly, skirting around the word that usually accompanied ‘unrequited’. He looked down a moment later to find John staring back at him in with no small amount of his own _feelings_. Sherlock’s features softened with a shy smile and he swiftly became aware that John was holding his hand as he gave it another light squash.

“Well I’m certainly not going to gamble on woman’s broken heart.” John resigned, spotting Lestrade coming back with an opened beer and detached himself from Sherlock, though he maintained their close proximity.

“Good. I rather had something else in mind.” Sherlock slipped in just before the DI arrived, causing John to do a double take.

“Here you are mate.” Greg handed him the chilly bottle, lightly wafting from the lip in the cozy air of the flat. “You sure I can’t get you anything Sherlock? Hell I’ll put a kettle on if you want.” Greg offered with an honest shrug.

“ _No_ , no…though I think I will have some of that eggnog before it’s gone.” Sherlock said pleasantly and both John and Lestrade shared a questioning look.

“Be my guest. If you want me to have a few of the boys wrangle Anderson away, just give me a holler.” Lestrade winked and pardoned himself to mingle with his guests.

“I always thought you didn’t like eggnog.” John pondered into his stout as he took a swig.

“Oh I like it fine enough. What I don’t care for is the sheer amount of _booze_ Hudders dumps into hers.” Sherlock replied, pouting in displeasure and John couldn’t rightly argue with that. He also noted the detective’s concentration was about as absorbed on the area around the drinks table as poor Lucy’s was.

John pulled the bottle from his lips with a soft smack and gasp. “This isn’t about eggnog at all is it?”

“Nope.” Sherlock said then whirled suddenly to face John, his eyes gleaming with intention. John did his best to conceal a smile around another pull of beer at the sight of the stuffed horns wobbling preciously on the man’s head.

“Find Dimmock and alter the terms of your bet. Tell him want to double your previous wager that Anderson gets _kissed_ under the mistletoe in _ohh_ …” Sherlock reached forward to the hand holding up John’s beer, pushing the snug cuff of his wretched jumper back with a grimace to reveal his watch. “Fifty minutes or so.”

Sherlock let the cuff go, his eyes shifting to somewhere behind John. “He’ll accept the rearrangement of course. He’d be an idiot not to.”

“Yeah…as would I.” John frowned up at him, not understanding at all where Sherlock was going with all of this but knowing fully well what _that_ look meant.

“You’re up to something.”

“Am I?” The detective remarked absently. His eyes looked nearly aquamarine in the warm, casual lighting of Lestrade’s flat. John watched as they flitted here and there before narrowing sharply.

“ _Mmmm_. And I’ll take a wild stab and say you’re not going to tell me about it either.” John mused with a sigh.

Spotting whatever it was he’d been searching for, Sherlock’s eyes flared in triumph. His regard shifted back to John then, catching his small, complacent smile. John felt long fingers slide over his hand at his side, curling softly around the underside of his wrist while Sherlock’s broad thumb swept across the top. A mimic of what he’d been doing to Sherlock earlier.

“All in good time John.” Sherlock murmured warmly as he gave his wrist a reassuring squeeze. As he went to sweep away, John managed to catch Sherlock by the cuff of his suit jacket.  
  
“Hold up. What should I do after I talk to him?”

Sherlock seemed to consider the question before smirking over his shoulder. “ _Hobnob_.” He pulled easily from John’s grip. “It’s what you came here to do after all.” And with that he slipped into the fray of guests, antlers jutting majestically from his curls.

“Hobnob.” John huffed to himself, trying to recall if he even _had_ forty pounds on him as he went off to find Dimmock.

 

~<>*<><>*<>~

 

As expected, Charlie Dimmock was over the moon to amend the terms of their bet. Though he did ask John not once but twice if he were absolutely sure. After John stated for the second time that he was in fact completely serious, Charlie gave a hearty—albeit high-pitched—laugh and almost sloshed his whisky sour to shake John’s hand in sealing the wager.

It felt a little like shaking hands with doom. And the feeling didn’t dissipate as John began to wind a meandering circuit round the party, stopping to converse here and there when he came across someone he knew. He couldn’t stop a periodic wander of his eyes while he chatted in an attempt to locate Sherlock. Despite Greg’s flat not being that all that large, John couldn’t spot his beloved numpty anywhere.

And how a six foot man, not counting the five or so inches of faux-fur horns, in a dress suit could elude his sight amongst two dozen people in atrocious sweaters, John hadn’t the foggiest. Though the first and last answer that came to the doctor’s mind was: _Because Sherlock_.

It seemed Anderson too had up and vanished by the time John had worked his way over to the drinks and appetizers. He did spot Claudia however, conversing with two coworkers near Lestrade’s thrumming stereo system and looking far more cheerful for it.

On a whim, John craned his neck to see across the living room towards the kitchen. To his pleasant surprise, Lucy was no longer skulking behind the doorframe but standing in full view of it and appeared to be talking with someone just out of John’s line of sight.

He kept his glances discreet, making a show of pouring a cup of eggnog after dropping his empty beer bottle into a nearby bin. Lucy’s entire attitude had shifted from the demure isolated creature she was prior. She was smiling, laughing, whatever she was discussing must have been exciting Lucy spoke animatedly; every so often motioning to the area near the base of her throat.

 _Good on you Lucy._ John commended, subtly raising his cup in a silent toast. Lestrade had evidently added just the right amount of schnapps to be dangerous, the eggnog cool and creamy with only the after taste of warm peppermint when he took a sip, then another.

His attention was drawn back towards the kitchen as Lucy made a bright giggle, loud enough to be heard over the merry crooning of Bing Crosby. John looked over to catch her nod happily before bowing inward, obscuring herself from view behind the doorframe.

Just then there was another merry whoop followed by the chorus of ringing glasses and bottles, signaling another kiss under the mistletoe. This time it was two female guests, one kissing the other playfully on the cheek as they were returning from the bathroom. The doctor grinned a little around the rim of his cup when a few of the guest’s made frankly suggestive howls.

“John!” Came a sudden call off to his right. John looked about before pinpointing Greg where he sat with several others around his coffee table. The DI waved for him to come over.

“John…now, you’ll remember better than I would.” Lestrade started as the doctor walked up. “The Andrews case last year, the one with the poisoned soap.”

John’s brows bounced at the memory. “How could I forget?” It had been a decidedly simple case in the end, simple with Sherlock involved that was. Perhaps a five and a half at best.

“Well Collins here doesn’t believe me about how you and Sherlock solved it, in spite of me telling him I was sodding there.” Greg motioned with his beer bottle to the man sitting to his right on a long black leather couch.

Collins was portly fellow in his mid-forties, the first stages of male-pattern baldness peeking through his short chestnut hair and with a mildly worrying case of rosacea spreading up each side of his ample cheeks. John didn’t know him personally, other than he didn’t work in Lestrade’s division.

Although at the moment he considered John with an amused skepticism, his bushy but neatly trimmed mustache crooked up at one side, Collins seemed pleasant enough.

It was then John made the mistake of looking at the man’s jumper.

At first glance it appeared to be winter—rather than holiday—themed, the majority of the sweater red with white knitted patterns of reindeer and snowflakes. Yet upon a longer examination, the doctor noticed the reindeer weren’t just standing artfully posed but were in fact, buggering one another.

Clearing his throat briskly, John tore his eyes away and made to sit down on the arm of a nearby loveseat. “Erm, do you mind?” He inquired to a younger woman with a caramel colored pixie cut and button nose, who was sitting directly next to the armrest. She was quick to scoot over enough to give him room, flashing John a welcoming smile.

Taking another nip of eggnog, John began recounting about Mr. Henry Andrew, age sixty-two, found strangled in his kitchen with obvious signs of a brake in though nothing was stolen. Mrs. Patricia Andrew, Henry’s wife, age fifty-four claimed she was having coffee in a local shop when the break in occurred. A rather open and shut case of a burglary gone wrong.

It was when toxicology report came back however, showing near lethal levels of cyanide in Mr. Andrew’s system though his stomach was empty at the time of death that Lestrade called in Sherlock.

While the lack of food or liquid in Henry’s stomach was intriguing, it was the signs of excessive dry skin and sunburn on the man’s hands that caught Sherlock’s interest. Upon requesting a second set of tests run on Mr. Andrew’s hands, the pieces began to fall into place.

As it turned out, Henry was dosed via poison-laced hand sanitizer, a compulsion of his. Not the poison part of course, but the obsessive use of the antibacterial gel. There were more than a dozen pump-activated bottles found around the Andrew’s home. Excessive exposure to the ethyl alcohol used in it had broken down the protective layer of Henry’s skin, allowing the cyanide to be easily absorbed into his body. Evidently he’d been slowly killing himself since the moment he woke up till well into the evening.

“Right but how did Holmes _know_ it was the wife who did it?” Collins asked, lounging back where he sat and resting a nearly empty whisky glass on his gut. John opened his mouth to answer, trying in vain to not look down at the man’s jumper, which was now in unhindered view.

“Number two-thirty-eight, _Murder in Paradise_.” Replied a deep slightly bored voice from over the doctor’s shoulder. John twisted round to see Sherlock standing a few inches away, hands in his trouser pockets. Sherlock regarded him briefly, his eyes traveling down from John’s face to the cup resting on his thigh, which he promptly stole. John made only a halfhearted attempt stop him.

“Nail varnish.” The detective clarified, addressing the group before taking a long sip. Lestrade sat back with a knowing look while John found himself momentarily distracted by the slide of Sherlock’s tongue licking white cream from his lips. “Rather _apt_ name I think.” He said after a small pause, swirling the eggnog around before downing the rest of it in one gulp. He handed the empty glass back to John who took it with sigh.

“The back door leading into the kitchen of the Andrew’s home was rammed open by a heavy object. Specifically something that could make a row of three puncture marks and was composed of bronze. Our would be burglar found such an item located in Mrs. Andrew’s back garden in the form of a sixty centimeter tall bronze statue of a Poseidon holding a trident. But that’s not the important part…”

“It isn’t?” Asked the short-haired woman sitting beside to John.

“ _No_.” Sherlock replied sharply, his nostrils flaring. “And I highly doubt your fiancé would approve of you ogling another man’s _bum_.” The woman made a tiny startled sound and John’s back went straight. He tried to offer her an apology but found the woman wouldn’t dare make eye contact with him, her cheeks burning bright with shame. _Oh…_

Lestrade cleared his throat, firing a cautionary glare at the detective.

“The important part is Patricia Andrew forgot her _wallet_.” Sherlock went on without skipping a beat. “Her plan was to spend a few hours in her local coffee shop and pay with a chip card. Not only would the staff act as witnesses to her being there at the time the poisoning occurred, but her purchase would be timestamped. Giving her a solid alibi.

However when going to pay for her _absurdly_ priced coffee she discovered that her wallet was _missing_ , left behind in her haste to leave. Desperate to solidify her perceived innocence, Mrs. Andrew sped back to her home only to find her cherished husband still alive. Though barely. He was already in the late stages of cyanide poisoning as John mentioned. Which was about the time she decided to expedite the process by throttling him with a tea towel.

Patricia then locked the kitchen entry and proceeded to bash it back open with the statue in order to make look like someone broke in.”

“While quick-witted, it was ultimately her greatest mistake.” The detective mused in satisfaction, his hand brushing discreetly up John’s back as Sherlock went to rest it on the top edge of the loveseat. “Though she tossed the statue deep into her rose bushes, what Mrs. Andrews didn’t realize was she’d left minute scrapes of nail varnish on the surface of the metal.”

“Murder in Paradise.” Collins added elatedly with the point of a thick finger, grinning beneath his bushy mustache. “But what tipped you off about her in the first place?”

Sherlock shrugged, shifting from one foot to the other and gliding closer into John’s space. “I observed the difference in length of the nails on Mrs. Andrew’s left hand verses her right when Lestrade was interviewing her. A sign they’d been recently broken and then filed and repainted. That, along with the distinctive arched bruising on her left palm. Found to be identical with the curvature of the base of the statue.”

“Hell…we could use a man like you in Petty. No telling how quickly we’d be turning them over.” Collins tipped his glass to Sherlock and then Lestrade, who looked more than proud himself.

When John peered over his shoulder, Sherlock had his eyes cast downward at some undefined spot on the rug beneath the coffee table. He had marked peacefulness about him and as if sensing John was watching him, glanced up from the corners of his eyes. As their gaze met, the corners of Sherlock’s mouth twitched faintly and John smiled lopsidedly in return.

“Oh! Tell’em about the one with the exploding eggs!” Lestrade suddenly crowed, catching both men by surprise. Noticing that the woman sitting next to him had quietly slipped off at some point and made scarce, John plopped down to take the open spot. He patted the arm rest, smirking invitingly up at the detective.

“This one’s yours.”

Sherlock eyed the armrest a little shrewdly before gingerly taking a seat, shifting around till he found a comfortably position which consequently had his hip pressed up against John’s arm.

“I suppose the best place to start is the beginning.” Sherlock remarked more to himself than anyone around him. He sucked in a deep breath, the fingers of his right hand drumming on his thigh where it was raised from his perching. “On the morning of April the 23rd Kimberly Chen decided to make an omelet…”

They spent the next half hour or so recollecting cases while the party buzzed around them. John would have a go, relishing in the details and the action while Sherlock attempted to sit quietly while he did. There were still a few occasional eye rolls or a ‘ _Really John? That’s scarcely relevant to the case_.’ Granted, Sherlock was pointedly silent whenever John praised him for making a connection, or spotting a clue, or being otherwise bloody brilliant.

Sherlock’s renditions were of course far more clinical but in true Holmesian fashion, no less dramatic for it. Although John had to reel him back from several tangents about a certain chemical makeup or blood splatter or residual texture. He did also make it a point to mention the times John was particularly helpful in kindling his thought process and took perhaps a bit too much enjoyment in recounting the times the doctor had tapped into his combat training when apprehending a criminal, especially when that criminal had his sights set on Sherlock.

While Sherlock was in the middle of recounting a triple homicide he solved based on a popular brand of lemon candy, John looked around to see not only their small audience—six including Greg and Collins—hanging on the detective’s every word, but that several more guests had filtered in and stayed to listen. And by the time John got finished telling them all about the case in White Chapel with the pickpocketing street performers, his watch was just about to strike nine o’clock.

“Yeah you try getting any sort of a confession from seventeen _mimes_.” Greg added crustily, not remembering that day quite as entertainingly as John did.

“And here I’d thought by now you were rather used to working with clowns.” Sherlock remarked, and John was a millisecond away from quietly reminding him that he wasn’t at a crime scene but in a police officer’s home _full of other police officers_. But to John’s astonishment, laughter burst forth around them. Collins himself gave a robust guffaw and slapped Greg on the back so hard it nearly sent the DI lurching forward.

“Ho, Ho! You better be careful Lestrade…I might steal this one out from under you.” Collin’s mustache spread wide around his grin.

“Not terribly hard if you’ve seen how well he handles an investigation.” The detective muttered nonchalantly, earning another blustering laugh from Collins to the point where the healthy flesh of his cheeks matched the flushed red of the rest. Greg barked a token ‘ _Oi’_ but smirked nonetheless.

Their audience splintered off soon thereafter; chatting amongst themselves or getting up to freshen drinks and grab more food before it was gone.  

It was a few minutes later that Lestrade clanged on the side of his beer bottle with a fork and announced the ugliest jumper winner, giving it to a Lieutenant Green. The young man had gone above and beyond the realms of taste by cutting two circular holes in the chest area of his sweater and then fashioning each of his (quite ample and hairy) exposed pectoral muscles to look like snowmen faces—including a carrot nose protruding from each nipple.

While not winning the contest was admittedly disappointing, considering he’d been suffering for nearly an hour now in a sweater knitted by the devil, John knew when he was trounced. Besides, he did have a particularly wonderful time reminiscing about cases with Sherlock. And of course there was the unquestionably incredible matter of Sherlock actually attending with him in first place.

Sherlock and him being there together as a…whatever they were, felt more like a cherished prize then any bottle of (albeit very good) brandy. 

The party ambled on and John had been intently listening in on a heated debate between Lestrade and Collins about last week’s football match when a small plate suddenly crossed into his vision. He lifted his head from where it was resting on his curled fist to see an antlered detective looming over him and appearing particularly determined.

“Here. So you don’t get all _testy_ before we’re back home.” Sherlock said, gradually asserting the plate at John until he took it. Sherlock had also acquired another glass of eggnog on his venture and set it down on the table by John’s knee.

“Why thank you.” John laughed softly, more than a little touched; though he did decide to let that ‘ _testy’_ remark slide. He looked over the carefully separated groupings Sherlock had made consisting of potato crisps, several baby carrots, thin slices of celery, a glob of some sort of oniony smelling dip, and what looked like four tiny spinach quiches. One of which Sherlock immediately plucked off the plate and popped into his mouth whole.

“Um, speaking of which…” John picked up a slightly damp carrot and ran it through the dip. “Maybe we should think about heading off soon, yeah?” He suggested, crunching as softly as he could. John hadn’t realized just how famished he was until there was suddenly food in front of him. Even the oily pile of crisps Sherlock had supplied for him was making his mouth water.

“And miss the best part?” Sherlock replied around his mouthful. He’d reclaimed his spot on the loveseat’s arm next to John, bracing one elbow on the backrest so he could recline his lengthy upper body. Leaving one hand free to snipe another quiche, which John was starting to suspect he gathered just for himself.

“I know you’re eager to get on with the rest of tonight’s…activities.” Sherlock rumbled after he’d swallowed thickly, sucking briefly on his thumb. John felt heat spread over his cheeks and something that _definitely_ wasn’t hunger, flutter in his belly.

Sherlock’s hand reached towards the plate to trail the tip of his index finger around the edge of a quiche as he continued, his voice dropping another decibel.

“I am too John. So very eager. Why I’ve been thinking about what we’re going to do _all_ evening.” He grasped the quiche between two fingers and maneuvered it towards John’s mouth.

Unable to form a reply around the sudden parchedness of his mouth and throat, he simply spread his lips as Sherlock glided the tiny tart in. The quiche was closer to room temperature by now and a little dry, but the egg was nicely cooked and the spinach was fresh tasting. John still struggled to get it down, making a quick grab for the cup of eggnog and taking several long gulps.

“ _Aherm_ —should I be prepared?” John managed to rasp out, aiming a coy smile at Sherlock even while his eyes watered round the edges. Sherlock looked predatorial the way he was reclined, the sleek lines and sharp creases of his dark suit, the gracefulness and subtle power of his limbs. Like a ruddy panther with _horns_. He laughed gently, more of a motion then anything that John could here. Sherlock’s dark lashes drooped and the corner of his mouth curled in an almost private smile.

“No.” The detective sighed, now eyeing the final quiche. John held the plate towards him in offering, snatching a few crisps for himself. “I plan on doing that for you.” He murmured, opting for a stick of celery instead, pushing it slowly into the dip and swirling it round.

John watched unabashedly as Sherlock slid the dip-loaded end of the celery over the pink, wet bed of his tongue before clipping it in half with his teeth. He chewed leisurely and purposefully, his eyes alight, penetrating, and John felt the fissure of excitement in his gut spread.

“And what exactly… _are_ we waiting for?” John’s voice wavered a little with giddiness as he mentally thanked whatever divine force above that no one was bloody aware of to the ridiculous display they were putting on. _On the fucking loveseat no less._

“Depends.” Sherlock shrugged the one shoulder he wasn’t leaning on. He tipped forward till the antlers nearly skimmed the top of John’s hair; his nimble fingers flickering while he deliberated between a carrot and a crisp.

“On?”

“What time it is.” Sherlock finally chose a crisp and swiped it through the dwindling onion dip.

More than game to move things along, John rested the plate on his lap to check his watch. “Nine…twenty _two_.”

Sherlock chewed with a short, thoughtful hum, licking a swatch of oil and salt from the corner of his mouth. “Five seconds then.” He announced and went in for another crisp.

John blinked slowly, trying to parse what the hell that meant. “What happens in—” The doctor had just begun to ask when there was an outburst of cheers.

There, beneath the mistletoe, Philip Anderson was kissing Lucy.

Lucy’s fingers were curled gently into the fabric of Anderson’s sweater, pulling him closer, while Philip had one hand raised with the barest of touches at the woman’s jaw as their lips met in a chaste but tender kiss.

“Son of a…” Lestrade quickly rose to his feet, cupping his hands on either side of his mouth and hooted.

John looked to Sherlock with a baffled grin to see him openly watching the two beneath the mistletoe. Though his expression didn’t give much away, John swore there was a quiet respect there. Curling his lips round two fingers, John made a shrill whistle before joining in on the applause.

Lucy broke from the kiss first, giggling and blushing furiously. She tucked her face away over Anderson’s shoulder for a moment while Philip gave the room a thank you wave and looked positively elated himself.

“I think this calls for another round!” Greg shouted at the top of his lungs, getting a rousing cry from his guests.

Anderson and Lucy lingered in the hall entry for a moment or two, quietly speaking to each other before joining the rest of the party, one bloke giving the forensic pathologist a congratulatory clap on the arm, making Philip tense up and then laugh.

Lucy meanwhile was absolutely radiant as she began talking with one of her coworkers, smiling a little bashfully. John caught more than one shared glance between the two and their proximity never ventured farther than a few inches.

“How in the world…” John trailed off in astonishment, turning to Sherlock again. “You had something to do with that, didn’t you?” Sherlock threw him a relatively innocent look and nothing more. “ _No_ don’t give me that—that ‘ _Whatever **are** on about John_?’ face you do.” He quipped, feigning his best impression of the man and causing the skin at the bridge of Sherlock’s nose to crease in offense.

“I sound nothing like that.”

John carried on, undeterred. “First you go all _mysterious_ and tell me to change my bet with Charlie. Then you bloody disappear for twenty minutes and suddenly those two end up snogging?”

Sherlock sighed dramatically, emphatically ignoring John’s question as he gazed out onto the party surrounding them. He scowled a second or two later.  “Who the _hell_ is Charlie?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Funny story time! When I made the choice to include Dimmock, I hadn't realized he'd never been given a first name by Mofftiss. He's just known as Dimmock. My searching brought up a lot of suggested names from fans and I personally dug Charlie. So he's now Charlie.
> 
> Which is kinda funny in context to Sherlock's questioning on who the hell that is (despite him just not knowing names), because technically...that name doesn't exist.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took FOREVERRRRRRRRR. S4 did an excellent job of killing my mojo and along with a few other personal goings on I just lost touch with this story. BUT...as promised, smut has arrived. And way more of it then I originally intended to boot!

As it turned out, Sherlock was fairly busy while John was making a go at hobnobbing.

“My first objective was isolating Anderson.” Sherlock began to explain on their cab ride back home. The car hissed along damp streets as a light but steady rain fell. John had been dreamily watching the droplets form and streak across his foggy passenger window when Sherlock suddenly spoke after remaining silent for a good five minutes into their trip.

“From Claudia?” John ventured, shifting a bit in his seat so he could regard him properly. The edges of Sherlock’s curls were crisp along his forehead and ears. At the onset of the rain, he’d tucked the stuffed antlers back into the pocket of his Belstaff as they left Lestrade’s.

It was strange but, John had become so accustomed to them projecting from the man’s hair all evening that Sherlock looked a bit off now.

“Well, I’m sure that wasn’t _too_ much of a challenge.” The doctor added thoughtfully. “She looked about ready to crawl out of her own skin if she had half the chance.”

Sherlock hummed and even with the swatch of shadow over his face, his impish smirk was unmistakable. “All it took really was me mentioning that a woman with dark hair was looking for her—since eighty-three percent of the women attending tonight had some shade of brown or black hair, the odds were in my favor that Claudia knew one of them.”

“She offered up the name Denise…or was it Darcy?” Sherlock interrupted himself to ponder.  “Debbie?—oh it was _something_ with a D, it’s inconsequential.” He appended critically as if John was the one pestering him for the proper name.

“All that mattered was for me to correspond with whatever name Claudia supplied. She wasted no time in thanking me before bidding Anderson a _spectacularly_ lackadaisical goodbye.”

“Poor bugger…still, I suppose you did him a favor.” John sighed. In truth, he was more impressed that Sherlock hadn’t just cut Philip down completely from the get-go about his chances with Claudia. While John saw the merit in Sherlock’s desire to save people from being emotionally hurt, his methods were questionable. A brand of mercy that typically ranged from blunt to downright ruthless at times.

“He was particularly—crestfallen,” Sherlock remarked grimly, in a way John couldn’t exactly tell was from reluctant empathy or distaste or perhaps a smattering both. “Rather fortunate then I noticed the note on the floor when I did.”

“Note?”

“ _Mmmm_. From Claudia. Asking to meet her in the bedroom within ten minutes.”

“Wait…I thought she didn’t fancy him.” John’s brow knitted in confusion.

“She doesn’t,” Sherlock replied simply. A fond smile stealing over his darkened face after he observed John for a moment or two.

“I do so enjoy watching your brain work John. Slow and steady, building up speed like a steam engine.”

“Watch it…” The doctor cautioned with a knock to his knee with his own.

Besides Lucy perhaps, John honestly couldn’t imagine anyone legitimately writing Philip a note like that. And considering Lucy seemed resolved to do her pining from afar, it was unlikely her.  But if the note wasn’t actually _from_ Claudia then—

John’s forehead went soft and his jaw tightened.

“ _Ding_.” Sherlock declared cheerfully. “ _Oh_ , don’t be like that…How else was I supposed to get him in the proper position and mindset?” He tutted at John’s visibly condemning look. “Anderson needed to get over his infatuation with Claudia before he’d be receptive to other prospects. I merely expedited the process.”

John shook his head slowly, smirking a little despite his disapproval of Sherlock’s blatant manipulation. That did explain Philip’s sudden disappearance from the party. Still, he couldn’t help but put himself in Anderson’s place, waiting in the dark amongst the coats in Greg’s room for god knew how long. His enthusiasm draining away bit by bit with every minute that door didn’t open.

“I anticipated thirty-five minutes until he was sufficiently snubbed.” Sherlock offered intuitively. “In the meantime, I set my sights on Lucy.”

“Lord, you didn’t write her a love note too did you? You don’t even write _me_ bloody love notes.” John groaned softly into his palm, running a chilled hand across his face. A small snicker came from the front seat and Sherlock shot a frosty glare through the rearview mirror as they slowed for a red light. Their driver’s face went politely flat, clearing his throat and hastily returning his eyes to the road. Sherlock then made it a point to slam the small window between the front and back seats closed as tersely as he could.

“Of course I _didn’t_.” He sat back with a frank huff, arms crossing in front of him.  “There’d be too much of a risk in Lucy asking Philip about it. Things had to progress organically. At least in appearance.”

“And you don’t write me love notes either,” Sherlock muttered loud enough for John to hear after a heavy pause.

Before John could counter with anything, Sherlock went on to tell him how he and Lucy had struck up a nice little chat. Namely about a necklace she wore, nearly completely hidden by the collar of her—according to him—‘ _ungodly_ _’_ jumper. For some reason, he’d recognized it but couldn’t quite place from where.

As John listened, he had his own moment of recognition. When he’d spotted Lucy eagerly talking to some unseen person in the kitchen later that evening, it must have been Sherlock. Especially with the way she kept motioning to her chest while she spoke.

“A quick internet search identified it as a leaf trinket from that— _Lord of the Rings_ film you forced me to watch a few months ago.” Sherlock continued, gesturing glibly between them with a twirl of his gloved hand.

“Hold up. First of all, that wasn’t just any _trinket_ …” John pointed an accusatory finger in the detective’s direction, whose shadowed eyes widened briefly. “Those were a unifying gift from Galadriel to the _Fellowship_. Secondly, I didn’t force you to watch anything. _You_ sauntered in while you were waiting on your—bacterium or whatever the hell you had _sprouting_ under our sink—” He grimaced at the memory. “—and then you didn’t budge till the credits.”

John decided to not mention the tiny gasp Sherlock made whilst curled up next to him on the sofa when Gandalf fell in Moria or the wetness he’d spied accumulating in Sherlock’s eyes while Boromir gave his final declarations of honor and loyalty to Aragorn. Both moments, John would secretly cherish for the rest of his days.

Sherlock glanced away toward his window, subtly abashed. “Be that as it may, you’re ignoring a _key_ factor. Clearly, Lucy has strong affection for the film—”

“ _Films_.” John corrected tenderly, biting his bottom lip as he felt an indignant rush of air swelling Sherlock’s chest next to him. His ire deflated a second later after a sidelong look at John’s expression.

“So, who else do we know that’s equally fanatical about them _hmm_?” Sherlock prompted. The way his eyelids lowered a fraction, slowly and softly in the snug darkness of the backseat caused John’s pulse to stutter.

It took him an appallingly long time to drum up with the most obvious of answers. Steam engine indeed. “Anderson! I remember we nearly got into an argument about Tom Bombadil being left out of the film once—Trust me, love. By the time I’m done explaining who and what that is you’ll of regretted ever asking me.” John was quick to append when he noticed the mildly nonplussed look Sherlock had about him.

“Anyway, I concluded that discovering their shared love of the films would serve as the perfect spark of interest. A light of hope at the end of Anderson’s miserable, lonesome little tunnel.” John gave a loud snort at that. “All that remained was to get Lucy from point A to point B.  That simply required me telling her I was interested in buying a similar piece of jewelry and she offered to fetch the business card of the man who handcrafted it.”

“Which happened to be in Lestrade’s bedroom I take it?” John asked. Though the pieces were already falling into place. If only he could have been a fly on the wall in the room when Lucy walked in to find a defeated Philip.

Sherlock nodded before becoming distracted by the car pulling up to a halt alongside them at another intersection.  “I simply made sure the necklace was in full view before she left.” He muttered inattentively. If he had been paying attention, Sherlock would have seen the utterly proud grin John was sporting. Although one question _did_ spring to the doctor’s mind.

“So… _why_ couldn’t you tell me any of this beforehand?”

“ _Hmm?_ —oh. Plausible deniability.” Sherlock rejoined the conversation, giving another slight shrug. “As far as Dimmock or anyone else was concerned, you had zero interaction with Anderson, or Lucy for that matter all evening before they kissed. Your surprise was as genuine as anyone else’s.”

It undoubtedly had been. And while Charlie was understandably disappointed for having lost so amazingly, he’d been a good sport when John came round to collect his winnings. Fishing two twenty pound notes from his wallet under the barely contained laughter of his workmates.

The remainder of the cab ride was spent in pleasant quiet, John scooching over and wriggling lower in his seat so he could rest his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock had tipped slightly toward him to make the angle more comfortable on his neck, unfurling his arms to rest a hand on John’s thigh. He must have missed when Sherlock plucked off his gloves because his hands were bare. The weight and warmth of Sherlock’s palm seeped in through the fabric of his trousers, the sluggish drag of fingertips along the material as they stretched outwards before relaxing, felt to John like an understated promise of things to come.

As the car pulled up to the kerb in front of 221B, John righted himself, grunting as he rolled his shoulder blades to feel the bones of his spine shift and pop. “You know that was really wonderful, what you did tonight.”

Sherlock arched a brow, already reaching for his door’s release latch. “What? Win you forty pounds?” He said as he stepped out, bending down briefly so that his face was back in the doorway. “I could have got you more.”

John was still chuckling as he exited the cab after paying the fair with a bit of his winnings. Sherlock waited for him on the pavement, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his greatcoat. The rain had thankfully stopped but the air was biting enough to not linger outside.

“What I mean is...” John’s breath clouded as he made a hasty dig for his keys on the way to the front door, Sherlock following swiftly on his heels. “You could of left it all well enough alone. Left Philip alone. But you didn’t. You saw an opportunity to bring two people together—albeit in your usual, Machiavellian way.” John teased, the tips of his fingers beginning to tingle as he slid the correct key into the lock.

“Who hell said I did it for Anderson?” Sherlock demanded, mildly aghast.

“Fine. For Lucy then. It was still a very generous thing to do.”

Sherlock’s airy snort billowed from his nostrils. “I suppose I was suddenly filled with the spirit of _giving_.” He remarked offhandedly as they swept across the threshold into the entry hall and John shut the door firmly behind them. “Oh—speaking of which.”

Like a magician pulling a rabbit from his hat, Sherlock reached into the deep confines of his coat and produced a long dark bottle of liquor and handed it off to John. Perplexed, the doctor turned the bottle around in his hand. His mouth fell open as the label came into view:

_Rémy Martin 1738 Accord Royal Cognac_

“You and I both know you were robbed of that win.” Sherlock shrugged innocently, pulling his scarf from his throat and leaving it draped loosely about his neck. “Seemed only fair then to rob the winnings.”

“Yeah, if you’re Christmas Robin Hood. Sherlock, I thought we agreed no more stealing things from Lestrade!” John reproved as he wobbled the cognac by its neck for emphasis. Though he was quite certain the smile in his eyes belittled any smattering sternness he was going for. Of course, Sherlock would couple doing something purely charitable with doing something wholly roguish. As if he was compelled to keep some sort of karmic balance at all times.

“ _I_ agreed not to steal his I.D anymore. I never said anything about his liquor. Or any of his other personal belongings for that matter—Relax John. I’ll just, assist him with a few low-level cases. Maybe even a _three_. That should square things up.” Sherlock rebuffed and spun round, the edges of his Belstaff wafting out in his wake to head upstairs. “Besides…now he’ll have an actually entertaining story for next year’s holiday party.” He exclaimed over his shoulder, already at the first landing from bounding up the steps two at a time.

“I take back what I said before,” John called after him, admiring the bottle once more and swiping an appreciative thumb over the label. “You’re a terrible man.”

“A terrible man who just gave you very good brandy!” The detective’s voice drifted downward, the echo of his footfalls growing softer with distance and the smile in John’s eyes spread to his lips.

 

~<>*<><>*<>~

 

When John made it upstairs to the main floor of the flat, the door leading to the kitchen lay open but the room itself was empty as he entered. He was further mystified to discover the sitting room devoid of Sherlock as well. It was only when John took a quick glance down the darkened hallway to his left, that the doctor noticed a soft sliver of light beneath the closed door to the bedroom.

John peeled off his damp coat and hung it on the back of a chair near the small, wall-mounted table that sat their microwave. He toed off his shoes and wandered into the living room, leaving the bottle of cognac on their makeshift desk. The heavy curtains had been drawn and the fairy lights were plugged in, bathing the room in a gentle glow.

John set about getting a fire going, taking the gas key from where it was held in the tiny arms of the terracotta warrior statue on the mantel. He then wasted several minutes trying to locate where Sherlock had squirreled away the matches, eventually finding them beneath the skull on the opposite side.

When the flames puffed to life, the doctor sat back on his heels, holding his hands out towards the fireplace. The exquisite warmth seeping into his fingers was so entrancing, that John’s heart nearly rocketed into his throat when he suddenly heard a rich voice rumble near his ear.

“Hasn’t anyone told you how _dangerous_ it is to wander these parts alone?”

“ _You_ … _berk_.” John let out in a decompressing gush, willing his pulse to settle as he turned himself round. Not only had Sherlock prowled up behind him on his hands and knees, but he was once again wearing the stuffed antlers.

John’s eyes followed their soft fuzzy curves all the way downward into Sherlock’s hair, which appeared like inky auburn in the light cast from the hearth. His curls had been through a thorough ruffling, enough that the little, felt ears and headband were completely buried. When John made his way down to Sherlock’s eyes, he found something penetrating, _intent_ , there staring back at him. That predatory air from the party returning tenfold it seemed.

It was then John’s brain caught up with what had been actually _said_ to him.

“I’m sorry, _what_?” The doctor blinked, laughing a little awkwardly as he came to sit with his legs cross in front of him.

Sherlock cocked his head, the antlers gently shifting as he regarded John with a touch of haughty amusement. “You’re either very brave or very foolish to come out here tonight. Mainly in _your_ condition.”

The skin at the center of John’s eyebrows creased vertically. “Condition…” He parroted and Sherlock huffed a laugh from his nose. Without warning he pushed into John’s space, planting his hands firmly on the carpet on either side of his hips and closing in so their faces were mere inches apart. Though John didn’t startle from the sudden intrusion, his breath did catch at the undeterred view down Sherlock’s dress shirt, undone by an extra two buttons.

“ _Indeed_. The signs are all there. Flushed skin, blown pupils, racing pulse, the give in your limbs, you’re practically radiating with it.” He spouted rapidly, pulling John from shamelessly gawking at his chest and the tight concave lines of Sherlock’s abdomen. The way they flexed minutely with certain words.

John was undoubtedly radiating with _something_. As perplexing as this all was, being trapped there on the floor, half caged under Sherlock’s body while he looked mere moments away from gobbling him up ( _And didn’t that sound lovely?_ ) definitely had John’s interests peaked, to say the least.

“It?” He asked, mesmerized by Sherlock’s soft flush lips in such close proximity, the bottom one pursed slightly. John absently licked over his own as he watched them move, shaping over the single word Sherlock replied with:

“ _Estrus._ ”

Sherlock’s features went softer, purposely disregarding John’s unreserved look of confusion as he leaned inward.

 _Wait— **that’s** my ‘condition’? I’m in bloody heat?! What the hell does that have to do with anyth—oh. Oh fucking hell. He’s actually running with this whole **buck** scenario, isn’t he? _ John processed with awe and a shocking flare of arousal. He stifled a gasp as Sherlock gave a lick at the underside of his earlobe.

“You’re concerned,” Sherlock whispered. His breath a warm gust over the corner of John’s jaw and down his neck. “Don’t be. While you can’t fight nature, you don’t have to face it alone.”

“Uh—right,” John replied, managing to keep a quiver of laughter at bay. Truth be told he’d enjoyed a touch of roleplay in past relationships and after becoming involved with Sherlock, John had gladly nurtured a resurgence of it when he discovered Sherlock enjoyed it just as much. But like experiencing most things with the detective, the act of roleplay had delved into deeper, grander ways than John had ever let himself explore.

This though...was an offbeat premise, even for them. Although John couldn’t complain about the slow, partially open-mouthed kisses currently happening along his jaw and under his ear. Not to mention the way Sherlock smelled like a luscious blend of musk and something indefinably _woodsy_.

Perhaps it was from having nothing but alcohol and a handful party nibbles in his stomach, but John was beginning to find the prospect of pretending to be a ruddy deer unexpectedly enticing.

Blindly, he reached his hands out, finding Sherlock’s bare forearms, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled roughly up to the elbows.

“And who are we if not— _erm_ —creatures of nature?” John grinned a little idiotically. His fingers exploring the texture difference between the fine hair on top and the supple skin on the underside as they traveled up. Sherlock shivered, the tail end of it coming out as a small noise along John’s neck.

“Driven by pure instinct. Rendered mindless with the desire to mate.” The doctor mused, getting a velvety hum in return from Sherlock.

“Which is why…I have to be especially cautious.”

As John’s hands rounded over the detective’s broad shoulders, he pushed himself back. Far enough to see the look of dreamy contentment on Sherlock’s face contort into a slighted pout.

“Well, I can’t just go romping off with the first buck I come across you know.” John reasoned with a shrug, one hand sliding down towards Sherlock’s chest, purposefully staying out of the tempting gap of his shirt. “Even if he _is_ unbelievably sexy.” He murmured, glancing up. The corners of Sherlock’s mouth had quietly curled and there was an unmistakable darling splash of pink spreading over his cheeks.

There was an eager vibrancy in his eyes, however. One that John recognized as Sherlock being intrigued by what he deemed to be a worthy challenge. And the doctor had to confess, it was a rather heady thing having it aimed so acutely at him.

Reevaluating his approach it seemed, Sherlock turned his attention to where John’s hand was lightly resting on his right pectoral. He reached up and enclosed it, messily slotting the last few of their fingers together.

“I assure you…I’m not like those other bucks.” Sherlock countered, regarding him through lowered lashes as he lifted John’s wrist towards his mouth. Hindered as he was by the unyielding cuff of John’s _increasingly_ bothersome holiday jumper, Sherlock managed to drop a kiss on most of his pulse point.

“Is that so?” John asked a little huskily, momentarily forgetting he was attempting to play hard to get as he watched Sherlock turn his hand over leisurely, kissing just below the first knuckle of his thumb.

Sherlock concurred with another hum, one John could practically feel vibrate in his marrow.  “All _they_ want to do is mount and _rut_ …” He continued acridly like he found the concept simply hateful. His lips skimmed over John’s skin while he spoke, sowing another kiss between his first and second knuckle.

“ _Yeah_ ,” John said low and breathy, struck with a nonsensical worry that talking any louder would spook Sherlock from the divine progression he was making up his finger.

“Make no mistake; while I intend to do the same, you’ll find my methods are far more… _fulfilling_.” With that bold gleam still in his eye, Sherlock curled his tongue around the edge of John’s thumb to draw it smoothly into his mouth. John echoed the soft groan Sherlock gave around the tip of his finger as he sucked, burnishing the pad along the slick bed of his tongue and then letting the whole thing slip out unhurriedly with a debauched _sswhip_.

Caught up for a moment in his own mounting desire, John smeared his thumb from the center of Sherlock’s mouth to one corner then back around, dragging it wetly across his bottom lip, rapt by the plush skin molding and shifting as he moved. His breath caught when Sherlock’s tongue darted out to flick at his fingertip as it passed near the middle.

“Oh. I should also mention that I’m devastatingly good with nipples.” Sherlock added, almost casually.

John couldn’t stop a giddy grin. “ _Gosh then_. If that’s the case, consider me smitten.”

Giving his palm a thrilled peck, Sherlock released his hand, budging up till his knees knocked into John’s. “Splendid. But first, we need to shed this _offensive_ fur of yours.” He declared, glaring rather lividly at his jumper, already making a grab for the bottom hem when John batted his hands away.

At first, John’s progress with removing the felonious article was going well enough; he quickly peeled it upwards, reversing it in the process to pull it over his head. It was when he tried to remove his hands from the jumper’s cuffs however where things went awry. Every time John yanked with his arms, the tightly-knit wool only constricted more around his wrists. The same proved true for his head when he attempted to writhe free of the collar.

“Oh for god sakes John—” Sherlock tisked a little witheringly after a moment or two, stepping in to assist him when John was wracked with an outbreak of giggles, making any further attempts to extract himself impossible. It took a firm steady pull and a lot of squirming for the fibers to stretch enough, allowing the blasted thing to finally spring off like a rubber band.

With great satisfaction, Sherlock harshly balled the jumper in his hands and pitched it passed John’s head.

“That better not of gone into the fire,” John warned half-heartedly, still twittering with laughter. His hair was in shambles, sticking up in several directions with static as he craned his neck awkwardly to look behind him.

 “Surely I’d be doing all of England a service,” Sherlock smirked, wasting no time to dive in and mouth along the parts of John’s clavicle exposed by the shallow V-neck of his vest. John abandoned his feeble search in lieu of burying his nose in the ruckus of curls tickling beneath his chin, mindful not to bump into the antlers. At the very least they were set wide enough on the headband that John could put his face near the crown of Sherlock’s head and just feel the lowest fuzzy points grazing at the edges of his jaw.

Sherlock’s hair smelled heavenly; the underlying scent of a day’s worth of sweat and traces of his hair products mingled with a aromatic layer of something very woody and perhaps floral. He pushed his nose a little deeper in and inhaled again. Whatever it was smelled like sandalwood or cedar—one of the sweeter woods and some sort of musky flower.

“You smell fantastic.” John murmured into the detective’s hair, winding his arms loosely around his neck.

“Teak— _mmm_ —and honeysuckle.” Sherlock supplied between kisses, working his way up towards John’s throat as his hands slid upwards along his stomach. “I’ve been waiting for an opportune moment to try it out on you. Tonight seemed _more_ than fitting.” His hands shifted farther up and John’s soft laughter caught in his throat as Sherlock began to thumb teasingly over his nipples through his vest. The extra bit of friction from the worn cotton sent shivers up John’s spine and a bolt of arousal into his lowers, making the already burgeoning pressure fuller.

John leaned into the gentle caress with a gasp, tightening his arms around Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock, in turn, kept his touch achingly light, carefully stoking the sensation until each bud pearled. He then pressed them down under the pads of his thumbs and John let out a quite undignified noise into his hair.

“ _Ohh_ …how sensitive you are.” Sherlock commended playfully as he licked a coquettish swipe up the bobbing lump of John’s Adam’s apple, grinding his thumbs down in circles with a light but steady firmness.

When he deserted John’s front to coast his hands down his sides, the doctor was left breathless, leaning heavily forward while he recovered. John hadn’t realized he’d been squeezing at the fine silk shirt beneath his hands until he unfurled them, pressing clammy palms over the distinct plains of Sherlock’s shoulder blades as he straightened up.

“This next, I think.” He felt Sherlock make a token pluck at his vest, still tucked into the waistband of his trousers. Nimble fingers worked slowly but efficiently, undoing John’s belt with a soft clink then moving on to the button. The moment Sherlock’s mouth was in view, John swooped in, cupping his jaw with both hands to kiss him heatedly and a little misaligned. Sherlock gave a low, rich groan and parted his lips.

Leaping at the invitation, John slipped his tongue into the hot confines of his mouth. Their tongues met with eager grace, running over teeth and gums. Dancing with each other under the veil of thick hungry kisses and John wondered briefly if they could survive with the current stock in the fridge so he might snog Sherlock till Boxing Day. While he imagined Sherlock would fair perfectly fine, John couldn’t see himself lasting more than a few days on buttered toast and a couple of slices of leftover meatloaf from Mrs. H.

John’s vest went sailing soon after, landing like a white splash on the back of the sofa. As he clumsily undid the remaining buttons of Sherlock’s shirt amid kisses, John was more than thankful he didn’t have to try and wrestle it over his behorned head.

The hearthrug was fire-warmed and soft against his back as John fell backward onto it, hands coming to rest above his head. He raised himself up so Sherlock could ruck his trousers and pants down as one, the semi-hard curve of John’s cock gently bobbing up as they were eased passed his hips.

As Sherlock tossed the remainder of John’s clothing aside with a quiet _plumpf_ , John found himself suddenly rapt by the detective’s appearance. The graceful yet powerful contour of his shoulders, the eloquent expanse of his torso. Sherlock’s usually pale complexion seemed to glow now that he was fully bathed in the firelight, giving him an almost otherworldly air.

It was a terrible cliché—considering the theme of their roleplay this evening—but John felt a bit like a deer in headlights staring up at him. Even more so since Sherlock was still in his suit trousers and John was laid bare ( _quite literally_ ) for him.

John scarcely felt self-conscious about being nude in front of Sherlock these days. Not like he had in the tender starts of their intimacy before Sherlock had _thoroughly_ convinced him he cherished every compact inch of John, including the parts gone ( _slightly_ ) softer and especially the more mangled ones he was far more self-conscious of.

He felt it now though. Not self-conscious per say, but a nervous sort of buzz at being spread out like this, on display for the other man to drink in. Why, Sherlock practically gulped him down with the drag of his eyes over John’s shoulders, his chest, at the tensing along his abdomen leading to a notable twitch from his cock—half-erect now without a single direct touch.

Sherlock’s features were serene despite the notably flush of his cheeks and the gleam in his wide-set pupils. When his eyes suddenly snapped back to John’s, the doctor blanched slightly.

“Just wondering why you’re still in those.” John covered with a lopsided smirk, lacing his hands behind his head and nodding at Sherlock’s slacks. “You’re not having second thoughts about deflowering me in my time of need are you?” He caught the tip of his tongue between his teeth and gave a saucy wiggle of his hips and a come-hither bounce of his eyebrows. It had the desired effect of wobbling certain interested parts.

“ _Certainly not_.” Sherlock retorted, fighting back a smile with a quick raise of his chin.

“Don’t confuse my delay for disinterest.” He continued, managing to rein himself in with a poise John had seen utilized countless times when Sherlock deemed it necessary to playact. As instantaneous as a flick of a switch. “As I already said, I conduct things differently…”

“And I mean to savor this.” The ‘ _you’_ implied in that statement was not missed by John. Not with the look of lustful resolve Sherlock possessed as he got to his feet—which John only noticed just then were already bare. With a twist of his fingers, Sherlock popped the button above his fly. Wanting a better view, John rose up on his elbows while Sherlock eased the zipper down and in one push, shed both pants and slacks, letting them sink to pool about his ankles.

The sight of Sherlock’s cock, flushed and lightly shining at the tip where it crowned from slightly paler foreskin made his mouth flood and John’s own length ache with sympathy. He absently took himself in hand for a few tender strokes while Sherlock loomed—the addition of the antlers it making him appear an even taller and statelier figure.

Something about it sent a heady excitement through him and John had to shut his eyes, his fingers curling tighter around his cock as it throbbed low at the base. He held his breath for a beat, letting the arousal diffuse from his head to the tips of his toes.

The faint sound of clothing flopping somewhere towards the kitchen caught his attention. He looked up in time to see the detective step carefully to either side of him, John reaching out to touch the sharp bones of his ankles, skimming upward along the edge of a defined calf and thigh as Sherlock sank to his knees.

Sherlock’s gaze was blazing, stark and almost silver in hue, partially shrouded by dark silky lashes. John collapsed back as Sherlock closed in, eclipsing him like a canopy. The doctor’s eyes trailed from the engaged muscles of Sherlock’s arms as he held himself aloft, across the flat plains of his chest and the pale pink drops of his nipples. When his sights reached the jut of Sherlock’s cock hanging heavy from his pelvis, John’s measly remaining restraint fell away and he opened the hand loosely wrapped around himself, lifting his arse from the floor.

“John—” Sherlock gasped a little helplessly, his body tensing as the doctor closed his grip around them both as best he could. With the distance between them, John could only manage to press the first few inches of their cocks together, but it was enough to facilitate a tentative frot.

Sherlock seemed to lose himself, his eyes fluttering closed, back arching gorgeously as he drove into John’s fist in measured little thrusts. John tried to match his pace, moaning softly as he felt Sherlock’s length hardening, the thick vein on the underside flooding with blood and heat. The sight of their glans packed together in the circle of his fingers, glossy in the firelight was intoxicating. He breathed a curse as he watched a fat bead of pre-come at Sherlock’s tip grow heavy enough that it rolled down and dripped onto his own.

John’s arousal was escalating alarmingly fast, making him suddenly lightheaded with need. That was until he made a clumsy grab at the back of a thigh—a well-established Sherlockian erogenous zone. With a throaty grunt, Sherlock all but yanked his hips away, towing out from John’s hold. His eyes were squeezed shut, his breath coming in harsh gusts from his nostrils and John felt a jarring pang of worry he’d gone and arsed it all up.

To his relief, Sherlock gave a husky laugh seconds later, licking over flushed lips.

“Too much?” John released himself, letting one hand fall to his stomach and the other to the side, knuckles lightly brushing against the soft skin above Sherlock’s knee. After a moment of getting his bearings, Sherlock gave a faint nod.

 “More than I’d anticipated.” He admitted, adopting a small, tight smile as he opened his eyes. “I wanted…I didn’t want it to end so soon. At least not until I—we…” Sherlock trailed off, avoiding John’s gaze in lieu of staring at some random point along his collarbones, abashed in a way John hadn’t seen displayed so openly very often. It made his insides flutter amongst other things he was pointedly trying to ignore for the time being.

_God, look at him. He honestly wants to play this out. Oh, come off it. You know damn well you’re enjoying this just as much. Hell, you’ve been obsessed with him in those ridiculous antlers all evening!_

Right then. If Sherlock had a narrative in his head, one where he shagged John silly on their sitting room floor in a pair of novelty reindeer horns, then by god that was going to happen!

John placed a tentative hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, who refrained from meeting his gaze even though he leaned into the touch. He caressed upwards, pressing his palm to the side of Sherlock’s pale neck, his thumb resting on the sharp line of his jaw.

With a fond huff, John noticed the antlers had gone slightly funny again.

“I think I got a pretty carried away myself...” John murmured sheepishly, reaching up with his free hand to fix them. To be honest, it was a stall tactic. He wasn’t quite sure what he could say that would recapture the enthusiasm, the mood Sherlock had been weaving. He knew what the end game was, no question about that. John was to be on the receiving end tonight, which he was more than amiable for. But there was something about Sherlock’s approach that felt significant.

 _Well, he did make it a point to differentiate himself to me._ John recalled.

 _Not exactly hard to do mind you…this is **Sherlock** after all. I haven’t a single doubt in my mind if this were real that I wouldn’t be head over heels (hooves?— **Christ** ) for him_.

The doctor tamped down a sudden bloom in his gut at the thought of encountering Sherlock like that. Like they had been pretending to. Him coursing with barely contained lust. And Sherlock showing up with his prowess and beguiling nature. All cheekbones and mystery. Unlike anyone he’d ever known or would know again for that matter, John was sure of it.

But maybe in roleplaying this scenario, it wasn’t just about John needing to get a biological leg over, to put it kindly. Maybe Sherlock desired, even if was at a subconscious level, to be accepted. That above _all_ other choices, John would take him. And he would, he _had_ in fact.

“You know...” John began again, the words coming to him remarkably fast as he traced the downy prongs of one antler. “I’ve never encountered anyone like you before. Someone so…dashing, intuitive. So astonishingly unique…”

“I can’t imagine being with anyone else like I want to with you.” He was delighted to feel a sudden quickening of Sherlock’s pulse under his palm, a silent indicator that he was indeed on the right track. John felt it too after all. What he was saying was frightfully intimate. Ironic since both of them were currently _naked_ on their sitting room floor.

Trailing his fingers downwards, John carded them through dark jumbled fringe to touch Sherlock’s brow, feeling it level out beneath his fingertips. “I know we um…just met and all.” John added, attempting to harken back to their original premise. “But I know, deep down in my bones…you’d be good to me.”

“Yes.” Sherlock’s reply was barely above a whisper, tilting his head towards John’s hand.

John wasn’t sure what that ‘ _yes’_ was in response to exactly. His last statement? All his statements? Some other unsaid thing Sherlock had picked up on? It didn’t really matter, not with Sherlock’s focus going hazy and altogether lovely as he finally regarded him.

“Show me.”

Sherlock leaned forward and kissed him soundly. A kiss John tried to recapture in vein when he suddenly pulled away. Rising up, Sherlock stretched a long arm to nab two decorative pillows that rested on John’s chair. The doctor’s brow rumpled as he didn’t remember leaving them there…

“Lift your hips,” Sherlock ordered softly and John complied, one pillow positioned comfortably between his bum and the small of his back. The other, slipped carefully beneath his head.

John settled between the two pillows with a sigh, arms at his sides once more and his fingers slightly spread, absently massaging the short worn fibers of the carpet. The area directly around the hearth felt like its own contained environment. Quiet save for the crackle of the fire in the grate, the occasional hiss of a car passing outside on the wet street, dampened by the curtains.

It created a strange sense of remoteness considering they were in the middle of London with their landlady only a floor below. _Oh god, I hope for Mrs. H’s sake she indulged in one of her herbal soothers. There’s no sodding way I’m going to be able to keep quiet_.

The niggling thought was promptly flung to the wayside as large warm hands began caressing up and down his thighs, making the soft blond hairs beneath stand up and John’s skin alight with goosebumps. John eased his legs farther apart, spreading them wantonly for Sherlock to sidle in as near as possible, perched on his heels.

As callused fingertips traversed their way upwards and over the sensitive breadth of his hips and belly, John’s muscles reflexively twitched. That apparently hadn’t gone unnoticed, as he saw the hint of a mischievous smile pass over Sherlock’s face.

“Git.” John laughed breathily, his eyes drifting closed with a thrill of anticipation as those fingers slithered higher, over his ribs and onward towards his chest, his nipples starting to tighten—which was why John was wholly unprepared for the slick point of Sherlock’s tongue as it traced along one side of his navel.

John’s hips gave a startled lurch. Bumping his glans into Sherlock’s sternum and sending a sharp jolt of pleasure back through his length. Sherlock held him by the sides, teasing along the opposite edge of the shallow indent before driving his tongue straight inside.

“ _Oi_!” John barked, half laughing and half gasping as he tried to wriggle away. Sherlock made a rumbly little chuckle, placing an apologetic kiss to the fine trail of hair below his navel. The antlers brushed teasingly over John’s torso, so foreign yet weirdly sensual.

Sherlock sat up again; this time slipping his hand underneath the bottom cushion of the red armchair. He rummaged a moment, his expression brightening as he pulled out what appeared to be a compact bottle of lubricant.

“Funny, I usually just find pencils and loose change under there.” John pursed his lips, puzzled and amused while Sherlock upended the bottle and squeezed a generous spurt of lube into a cupped palm.

Sherlock shrugged, both of them—John quite unabashedly—watching as he dipped his middle finger into the small clear puddle and stirred it round. “It’s one of several stashes.” He glanced over to John, flaunting a catty smirk. “Strategically placed of course. I’d tell you the other locations but that would take all the fun out of it.”

John beamed, picturing Sherlock wandering the flat from room to room envisioning sex acts between them and secreting away lube. 

When Sherlock then lowered his hand between John’s thighs, the doctor braced himself for the touch of the cool, wet finger. A sharp inhale escaped him, the back of his head tipping into the pillow as Sherlock made contact, rubbing his fingertip over hot puckered skin. Stopping periodically to gather another swipe of fluid warming in his palm and applying it to John’s entrance.

Sherlock paced himself. Massaging the snug ring gently at first and seeming to glorify in the unfiltered sounds it forced from John before using firmer pressure at the very center, beginning to unfurl.

By the time he'd worked in up to his second knuckle, coated with another liberal amount of lubricant, John was practically writhing. He’d dug his heels in against the hearthrug, looking for leverage to impale himself further onto Sherlock’s finger and at some point had wound a hand around his forearm, absently squeezing at it.

John thought he heard Sherlock murmur something about ‘ _beauty’_ or ‘ _beautiful_ ’, though it was hard to tell with the competition of his pulse coursing in his ears. However a second or two later Sherlock lay down to the right of him, one leg crossing and stretching out alongside his own, leaving the hand between John’s thighs to move freely. Putting the most delicious pressure against the tight swell of his sac, now pinned beneath Sherlock’s wrist.

It left him feeling a little helpless against the intensifying pleasure of it all. Too distracted to register Sherlock’s warm breath as he closed in and licked over John’s right nipple.

John keened, the nails of his other hand digging savagely into the poor threadbare carpet as Sherlock flicked and swirled at him, still penetrating him slowly but relentlessly. When Sherlock sealed his lips around the stiffening nub, shiny with his saliva and sucked it in, John went ridged. His chest raising upwards, another cry ringing out into the subdued atmosphere of their sitting room. He was barely aware of an antler against his cheek, the soft fur catching on a sticky glaze of sweat on his skin.

Sherlock moaned shamelessly, drawing John’s nipple in further as he sunk his finger as deep as it would go, John’s passage clench reflexively as it curled upward, searching. _Hunting_ for the hidden node of John’s prostate.

“ _Sherlock_ …” John whispered brokenly, then a little louder. “Oh god— _fuck_ —just—” Whatever he’d been attempting to convey dissolved into a low, choked whine as the broad pad of a fingertip located the gland, glancing by it. Sherlock kept to the outskirts, petting carefully around the smooth bulge but not rubbing it directly.

Arousal flooded John’s body so fast it made him dizzy. He could feel the thick line of Sherlock’s erection pressed firmly alongside his thigh. His own cock was nearly touching his stomach, throbbing from his bollocks all the way to the engorged head.

“Look at you…so hard and leaking.” He distantly heard Sherlock purr after releasing his nipple, flushed and glistening. John had a half second of reprieve before he felt the pad of the finger inside him circle inward and press lightly against his prostate.

John’s hips bucked with a broken curse, his lower half bowing as Sherlock proceeded to caress the swelling node with feathery pressure. John bit fiercely at his bottom lip, something high and thready breaking from his throat. A large splotch of seminal fluid dribbled from him, stripping across his navel.

“I can feel you taking me in. Opening for me.” Sherlock panted, an unmistakable tremor in his voice and John realized that he was idly grinding himself against his thigh. Though for how long now he had no clue. John’s concept of time and awareness had boiled down to nothing but the finger inside him and the deep voice purring over his chest.

“Your body’s craving more…want me to give it to you?”

John made a fervent nod. As if the answer wasn’t obvious from the way he was unashamedly fucking himself on the man’s hand. Sherlock ceased his incessant stroking and John all but melted into the floor, boneless. Giving a weak grunt when Sherlock carefully withdrew his finger.

He peered on hazily as Sherlock rose a little awkwardly on one elbow, stuffed antlers wobbling and cock pointed lewdly as he twisted to search for the lube. Discovering the bottle had rolled midway under John’s chair.

Holding the bottle aloft, Sherlock drizzled a liberal amount of fluid onto his index and middle fingers. The way it ran down those blessedly _long_ shapely digits made John’s stomach swoop.

He came to kneel back between John’s thighs and helped him reposition his legs with one hand, palm sticking to the doctor’s skin. He had John plant his feet flat on the floor, knees comfortably raised.

“Wider, just a bit...” Sherlock coaxed quietly and John let his legs tip further open and gasped. The stretch went all the way down to his tender entrance, pulling at the loosened band of skin. Sherlock ducked his head to kiss at one of his trembling knees.

What followed was both maddening and glorious. While Sherlock didn’t necessarily rush—which he refused to do _ever_ when it came to preparing John—he was efficient nonetheless. Working with two, then three fingers inside him. Opening John’s channel while the doctor did his best not to come completely undone. It certainly didn’t help that Sherlock seemed to have the opposite goal in mind, ably stoking John’s arousal during the entire process.

Whether it was a balmy palming at his balls, followed by a delicate pull or two. Or the occasional grope of lips along the underside of his straining shaft, the sweep of a tongue at the head. The only thing Sherlock didn’t engage with was John’s prostate. At least not touching it directly within. That didn’t stop Sherlock from kneading a thumb into his perineum now and again, making John writhe.

John nearly sobbed with relief when Sherlock removed his fingers and made a hasty grab for the deserted lubricant, the bottle shaking faintly in his grasp as he squirted a messy pool into his palm. He pondered briefly if Sherlock had touched himself at all while priming him or if this was the first time from the low, almost anguished noise he made as he slicked his cock. Rigid and dusky rouge.

As Sherlock clamored back over him, John lugged him down by the biceps as much as the man let himself plummet.

Their mouths met, heated, hungrily, John’s hands roaming over every inch of Sherlock he could touch. There was something John relished about the weight of him, the way his larger, longer frame surrounded him. He followed the trail of Sherlock’s spine with his fingers, stopping to adore over the subtle iliac dimples at the small of his back. The ones Sherlock adamantly denied he even had.

After a course of fervent snogging that threatened to devolve into frantic rutting once again, Sherlock lifted himself and took hold of the base of his cock. John wriggled a little to accommodate him, spreading his thighs wider and scooting farther down on the pillow under his back.

He bleated weakly when he felt the damp, swollen glans nudge at his entrance. The loosened hole easily giving way, dilating, as it was pushed gently but incessantly against. John breathed slowly through the brief pressure that always preceded the blissful rush of sensation as Sherlock finally breached him.

“Oh god, love. Don’t stop, please don’t stop,” He pleaded, the skin of Sherlock’s back denting under his fingertips. Stars flashed behind his eyelids as Sherlock skimmed passed his prostate, sinking steadily inwards until bottoming out with a broken groan across the doctor’s ear. Lean arms wrapped around him, a hand coming up to cradle the back of his neck, the other tucking between the floor and John’s scarred shoulder.

They lay there a moment, chests heaving against one another, acclimating. The ache John experienced at being penetrated was already fading into a contented sort of fullness. He turned his head a few inches to press his lips at the edge of an ear. With a sigh of his name, barely audible, Sherlock began to gently rock against him.

John’s body arched, his toes curling. It took a precarious, delirious moment for him to establish any sense of rhythm, rolling his pelvis to meet Sherlock’s steady thrusts, pulling out a little further each time.

“John I—I’m not sure how long— _oh!_ ” Sherlock gasped into the crook of his neck where he’d crushed his face, his voice sounding frayed and a little desperate. He seemed to move on autopilot, need outweighing composure as his hips gave a sudden snap.

John keened unmistakably loud. His hands scrambled to Sherlock’s backside, squeezing the pliable flesh and firm operating muscles beneath, attempting to convey that he was in much the same state. The tell-tale current of orgasm was building in his balls and along his lower spine so quickly it was staggering.

Luckily, Sherlock read John’s intentions loud and clear, wedging his knees beneath the doctor’s thighs for purchase. Though the tempo remained measured, Sherlock pumped into him with his whole body. Each stroke long and deep, colliding with the throbbing lump of his prostate so precisely that John felt close to tears. John impulsively hugged himself around him, lifting shaky legs and hooking the backs of his heels just under the swell of the man’s arse.

“Please, Sherlock—oh god, I—I need—” John ground himself feverishly on Sherlock’s stomach in a bid for more friction, feeling himself charging towards the edge of release. He let out another bright keen when the hand at the back of his neck was snaked between them and dexterous fingers wrapped around his aching length. Any previous reservations John had about staying quiet shattered as he tried to hold out against the onslaught of new sensation, succeeding a few stuttering plunges into the solid grip before he was coming, spurting over Sherlock’s fist.

John was still shivering as the hazed cleared, his breath catching at the almost sharp, oversensitive pleasure he felt as Sherlock chased his own end, the force of his hips growing more and more helpless. Although exhaustion was quickly beginning to take its toll, John used every last ounce of energy he had left to flex his insides, squeezing everything from his stomach to his glutes.

Sherlock cried out and John felt a familiar stiffening followed by a burst of heat inside him. He pulled Sherlock closer in his arms, cradling him as he shuddered and pulsed. John whispered into his ear: _‘That’s it my darling buck…every last drop…you feel so good inside me…’_ Admittedly silly in retrospect, but certainly worth it for the soft sweet noise Sherlock made, one last quiver coursing through him before he went spineless, panting hotly over John’s shoulder.

After a long moment, he felt Sherlock peel his face from where it had become stuck with sweat to his skin. John cracked his eyes open to see the detective looking down at him, his gaze drowsy, cheeks sex-flushed. He had only a second or two to admire how handsomely debouched Sherlock appeared when the antlers—having gone terribly crooked, gave way and smacked John square in the face.

 _“Oh bugger_.” Sherlock muttered a little drunkenly, making a gallant but slow reach for the headware. John got to them first however, wincing as he flung them somewhere under the coffee table. He blinked away the light sting in his eyes, meeting Sherlock's gaze for a beat before both men were curling with laughter. 

“ _Ah_ …I think that about sums it up, yeah.” John wheezed a little, wrapping his heavy arms around Sherlock’s torso. The detective was still quietly chuckling as he pressed his sweaty forehead to John's, the tips of their noses brushing. John closed the slight gap between their lips with a chase kiss. Then another.

"What do you say we crack open that pilfered brandy and order in some Thai?"

Sherlock hummed, dropping a third kiss. "You do the ordering, I'll do the cracking."

"Deal." John let his eyes slide shut. "Just give me a few minutes. I don't think I could even manage an army crawl at the mo."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small epilogue chapter to follow and then I can put this story to bed ;)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a small wrap up, cause I couldn't put these two down just yet.

 

‘ _A few minutes_ ’ became nearly twenty, during which Sherlock eased himself from John and a heated debate ensued over whether or not they should get an order of khanom jeeb. John finally settled the standoff by suggesting they just get _two_ orders of the Thai dumplings. That way, when Sherlock inevitably ate most of them, there would be some left for him.

“I seriously don’t get where you put them all.” John had quipped, patting Sherlock on his lean stomach. The detective had given a flippant roll of his eyes and promptly moved onto the subject of curries.

Later, after their takeaway cartons sat nearly emptied, after the fire had been dimmed and only the soft glow of fairy lights served to illuminate, after Baker Street settled down for a long cold night, John settled himself down on the floor between Sherlock’s legs while he sat on the sofa, nude save for his dressing gown spread wide.

The doctor teased and sucked him off with deliberate indulgence while Sherlock gasped and moaned increasingly incoherent things, each hand clenched around a stuffed antler. John had adorned them with a determined gleam in his eye before plucking the tie at Sherlock’s waist loose. When in position, he’d lifted the man’s legs so that the soles of his feet rested on the edge of the coffee table; giving John unhindered access to all of Sherlock’s lowers including the underside of his thighs.

And later still, after Sherlock’s splayed knees drew in, after his hips nearly lifted off the cushion with a bitten off bellow of John’s name and John moaned eagerly around his pulsing length. After John had climbed inelegantly onto Sherlock’s lap and Sherlock crushed their mouths together as he took John’s cock in a lightly trembling hand. After John gave his own breathy shout along Sherlock’s temple, spilling over the man’s fist for a second time that night.

After all that, they lay entangled together on the sofa, sated and fighting off the siren song of sleep.

“Sherlock?” John asked muzzily against the man’s clavicle where his cheek was squashed. Sherlock merely hummed back, equally drowsy sounding into his hair. “What _did_ happen to the jumper I got you?”

Rousing himself, the detective grunted and stretched under John, who was partially draped over him and partially wedged between Sherlock’s side and the back of the sofa. And not a terrible place to be at that.

“I’ve begun running tests on it using varying grades and types of acid.” Sherlock’s voice started a little horse, but refined as he went on. “I’ve been meaning to document the solubility of synthetic fibers, but hadn’t brought myself yet to buying something containing that much _polyester_.”

“Well, at least it’s gone to some good use.” John wasn’t at all surprised by Sherlock’s designs for the sweater and if he were honest, was rather touched by them. “You can have a crack at mine too while you’re at it. Put the poor thing out of its misery.”

“I’d be more than happy to.” Sherlock swept the hand warming the small of John’s back up along his spine to rest between his shoulder blades.

The far off ticking of the clock in the kitchen had a lulling effect and John shut his eyes, letting the sounds settle over him like a blanket. His pillow, the slow rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest and the deep steady thrum of his heart within.

He’d nearly begun to doze off when Sherlock spoke up, his tone low and rolling a little like thunder to John’s ear.

“I…I hadn’t expected to enjoy myself as much as I did tonight.” He cited thoughtfully. “Marvelous sex aside—”

“ _Both ti_ mes.” John chimed in through a yawn.

“Indeed.” Sherlock concurred, with the hint of a smile in his voice.

“ _Mmmm_ …so was it the part where you showed off how brilliant you are to a captive audience…” John hummed sleepily into the skin below his mouth before pressing a long uneven kiss into it. “Or was it the part where you humiliated some poor woman for leering at my bum.” His lips spread into a barely contained grin.

“I never said it was _yours_.” Sherlock refuted almost immediately.

John smoothed a hand down his side, like one would a riled animal. “You didn’t have to. We both know you wouldn’t give a toss if she was staring at yours. Or Greg’s or anyone else’s for that matter.

I don’t mind you know. I mean about you being a bit possessive of me, not someone checking out my arse…though I can’t say I really mind that either…” He muttered teasingly, and felt the subtle dip of Sherlock’s waist twitch beneath his palm.

“Well I _do_ ,” Sherlock harrumphed, though the broad thumb sweeping over the upper notches of John’s spine subsequently ruined the attempt to persecute him.

They fell into a lull and John found himself mulling ( _fondly_ ) over their evening again. He had been since he’d wobbled off to the bathroom for a quick clean up and then again while they waited for their dinner to arrive and shared a glass of cognac.

Sherlock had been a touch dubious about actually trying it, but after giving the open bottle a curious sniff he wasted no time having a sip when John handed him the glass. He’d surprised John then by taking a second, larger swig and proclaiming he quite liked the hints of spicy butterscotch and dark chocolate.

Mainly, John’s mind kept circling back to their roleplay. While the premise was perhaps their raunchiest to date ( _And admittedly, fucking amazing for it_ ), he’d been pleasantly thrown by the deeper, more emotional desires that cropped up.

It didn’t take a genius to see that Sherlock wasn’t exactly an open book when it came to his feelings. Though he had no qualms about voicing his disdain for something or someone. Or his excitement, inappropriate as it was at times. Sherlock still struggled with what he considered messy, sentimental or imperiling emotions, even to John candidly.

Not that John found it all that much easier to express how he felt sometimes either. Half of his upbringing was keeping emotions bottled up as to not let it be used as ammo against him by his own father. 

It had taken a very long time and a lot of soul searching for him to be a more open man, but there were still some things he couldn’t quite verbalize yet. Maybe never would.

Wasn’t it reasonable then, that there were also things Sherlock felt safer right now exploring or verbalizing in the act of roleplaying? And really, wasn’t that sort of the whole point of it?

“I can _hear_ you building up steam down there,” Sherlock chided softly, startling John a little from his thoughts.

He scrambled for a moment, feeling a bit like he’d been caught red-handed, which was silly. Nothing he was thinking about was all that bad, quite the opposite. He’d felt so cherished this evening. Really, his only worry was that he’d been able to impart that same feeling on Sherlock in the process.

“Just thinking about how much fun I had tonight too. And that…I wanted to thank you for coming out with me.” He said quietly.

“Well, I couldn’t let you face the horrors of London’s finest in vile knitwear alone, could I?” 

“You were wise to worry.” John snickered. “Still. I appreciate the effort; I know, um, parties aren’t really your thing.”

There was a disillusioned sigh above him. Sherlock turned his head, addressing the ceiling as he spoke. “I’ve always found them tedious and expectant at best. Act a certain way. Speak a certain way. _Conformity_. You know how I loathe orthodoxy; nobody wants to talk about the germination rate of exotic fungi on necrotic tissue round the hor d'oeuvres.”

John grinned a little at that. “You’ve never been to a medical conference after party. I call it the ‘ _Tequila Effect_ ’. All sorts of colorful things start to come up in conversation after the third or fourth round of shots.”

Sherlock scoffed; strongly enough that John felt it tickle over his hair, which was probably sticking up in all sorts of absurd directions. Not that he really cared; he was after all lying naked and plastered fairly viscously to Sherlock. Still simmering off a post-coital high, his belly full of Thai and brandy. In other words, absolutely perfect.

“I noted the same phenomenon at uni parties.” John shrugged in amusement.

“I wouldn’t know. University parties and I had a mutual avoidance of one another.” Sherlock returned coolly.

John’s stomach sank sharply. _You bloody idiot, you just **had** to bring that up?! After the way he looked at Lestrade’s._

“I please ask that you refrain from apologizing John.” Sherlock continued, somehow sensing what the doctor meant to do as he opened his mouth. “You did nothing wrong, and you didn’t make me do anything I couldn’t have easily refused. That—point, in my life is well and truly behind me. Where I’d very much prefer keep it. And as I said before I had an enjoyable time tonight. More so afterwards if that wasn’t obvious.” He finished with a suggestive purr in his tone.

“Oh I gathered as much. With the marvelous sex and all.” John felt only slightly less of a prat. He tipped his head a few centimeters and inhaled at the warm skin of the detective’s sternum. Sherlock must have daubed a bit of his newest oil concoction there too because there were fading traces of teak and honeysuckle amongst the smell of fresh, cooled sweat and his own unique scent.

“Speaking of which, I suppose we’ll just have to keep these.” Sherlock gave the head-band mounted antlers a lazy nudge with the tip of a finger where they lay abandoned on the coffee table.

John craned his head, spotting them resting there so innocently and out in the open after what they’d done. Just looking at them made his cheeks flush and his gut jolt with interest. “Don’t see why not. Though I might pack them back in with the rest of the Christmas décor. Could be a nice surprise every year.”

“Or within the next half-hour…”

“You take me for a younger deer love. Besides, I’m about ready to hibernate.” John said before yawning loudly and snuggling back down, suddenly feeling the tendrils of sleep creep back over him.

“Deer don’t _hibernate_ John.” Sherlock sighed. “And just think how majestic I’d look riding you.”

“Gosh you _are_ a terrible man.”

“Tomorrow morning then.” The detective huffed in setback, enclosing John in his arms. Sherlock nuzzled his face against his brow until he found a comfortably position, his breath warming the skin along John’s scalp just under his nostrils.  

“ _Late_ tomorrow.” John mumbled into his chest as his eyes closed.

“John?”

“ _Hmm_?”

“What you said, by the fire I—me too.  All of it.”

Sherlock pressed a tender kiss to his forehead, pulling John closer to him and John drifted off with a giddy smile on his face. He might have dreamt fleetingly of trees and underbrush dusted in recently fallen snow. Of a deep, rhythmic thud of hoof-falls nearby.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I hope you guys enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed writing it. I know it took ages and ended up being longer then I planned but, let's just say I was about as smitten as John was with the idea. 
> 
> No pressure but if you dug this too, leave a comment and let me know what you thought. I cherish every single bit of feedback I get. 
> 
> And if you liked this (shameless plug incoming) check out [The Empty Chair](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4014700). I'm still kicking around if this story falls within the same universe. But I think it just might. ;) I'm currently working on the next chapter of that. Can't give a definite update date but...muse willing, it should be in the near future. 
> 
> And as always, thank you so much for taking the time to read this! 
> 
> PS: In case you were curious, John's jumper actually _does_ exist:  
>   
>  No idea if this was purposely done to be awful or someone made this in earnest. But it is brilliant.
> 
> And of course I couldn't leave out the antlers I've been referencing:  
> 


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